


Lying in that Sound, Tonight

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:30:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 108,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the victory of the allies, before the United States of America joined the war, before Lend-Lease, before everything — there were just two nations, two men, who just refused to meet halfway until it was forced upon them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ October 1, 2010. 
> 
> Warning: This is a WWII fic and deals with a lot of historical detail, most specifically the Blitz and the US build-up to entering the war. So general warnings for that. Note also that the opinions of characters are not necessarily those of the author's. This story is rated PG-13 for language, violence, and war. Please note that some chapters will carry graphic descriptions of the bombings in London as well as other World War II related violence.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred listens to the sounds of war half a world away, and stands firm in his decision to remain uninvolved.
> 
> Time stamp: September and December of 1940.

  
  
By all means, it was a rather pleasant day outside. A sunny mid-afternoon, waning into early evening. It was dark in the room, though. If he’d wanted, he could have easily watched the sun set—throw open the curtains and stand out on the porch of his modest house, watch the night progress, the cheerful buzz of crickets and the twinkle of lightning bugs. But instead he sat in darkness, the only light coming from the corners of the curtains, where they couldn’t block all the light, and from the low red ember of a lit cigarette. The radio was tuned, clicked on, waiting for what he always waited for, every day without fail.  
  
There was the little chime of the opening, the fizzle for that brief moment when the airwaves were perfectly silent. And then, low and clear, crisp as if right behind his shoulder, Edward Murrow said over the radio airwaves: “This is London.”  
  
And then the bombs exploded in his room, filling the dark, silent air with shrapnel and sirens. Coherent thought drowned in the whistling sound of the bombs, the crunching sound of destruction, the sound of antiaircraft guns. The bombs screamed, the sirens wailed, and through it all he couldn’t hear a single voice, other than that one man. He could never imagine what Murrow’s face must look like on the other side of the ocean, willingly standing in the lasting debris of a falling nation.  
  
There was a horrifying moment when there were no words, only a siren’s scream, only the sound of unnatural thunder, the sound of collapsing buildings, of fire raging through streets.  
  
Alfred inhaled, cigarette between his lips. He held the smoke in before exhaling, breathing out the smoky translation of everything he would not say: the tobacco language. He understood it well, understood the way the smoke moved. The smoke drifted through the dark room before dissipating, as if it had never been there at all.  
  
September 1940 had been a long month. Even for him. He couldn’t imagine what it was like for the people on the other side of the ocean, in Europe. He told himself he didn’t actually care, as long as he and his land were left untouched. He listened to the radio, to the BBC, not because he was concerned, but because it was necessary to stay informed about what was going on. The men in Washington thought so, at least. In many ways, he thought, he and the others like him clung to the image of war, thrived on it—it was something they could understand, something in which they could find a strange solace, a strange understanding. And it’d been so long since Alfred had tasted war, and the taste was still bile in his throat most nights. But it’d been so long that sometimes it was reassuring to hear the familiar sounds, to hear something that he could understand and grasp, above everything else (this is what he told himself, when his own sun went down and the bombs were still screaming in London).  
  
He sat for hours, listening to the radio broadcast, as England moved from sundown to sunrise. Ever since the start of the Blitz weeks ago, he’d sat in the same room, on the same channel, listening to the sounds of human suffering an entire ocean away but loud enough that it could very well have been outside his window. Sitting alone in his room, listening, with coffee and a cigarette he kept forgetting to smoke, staring blankly at the wall—he listened, motionlessly, as the room filled with the sounds reflected from London.  
  
 _It’s only a matter of time before he falls._  
  
It wasn’t the first time the thought occurred to him, wasn’t the first time he recognized that the situation seemed rather dire for everyone on the other side of the ocean. But he couldn’t get involved, wouldn’t let himself get involved. He couldn’t.  
  
He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and with steady hands lit a new one.  
  
It’d been too costly to be involved in the last war in Europe, and because his administration wasn’t willing to do it again, neither was he. He would do as his people wanted, and leave it at that. He turned the volume down on the radio, only slightly. He knew his own people were listening in, too, listening to the destruction and the pain. He wasn’t sure how they thought of it all, though.  
  
He listened.  
  
A bomb exploded close to where Murrow was recording his broadcast, and it seemed to rattle the very room Alfred sat in, seemed to rattle his very bones.  
  
He listened to the destruction, listened to Murrow speaking through the airwaves, describing in little gems of detail how people struggled to live their lives, even as their city and world threatened to shatter around them. Shattered.  
  
After a long while of listening, just as he always did, he wondered to himself: why did he listen?  
  
What could it possibly do for him to listen to the destruction of a country he didn’t care about? He hadn’t cared about England for a long time and he wouldn’t ever again. He kept reminding himself of that, kept telling himself that even if it was a horrible situation on the other side of the ocean, it wasn’t his business. Not anymore. Never again.  
  
The broadcast was ending. It was dawn in England. The Luftwaffe was returning for the night, leaving London in ruins.  
  
The broadcast began to wrap itself up. The hum of bombers disappeared into the night, as the sun rose over a damaged London, but still not broken. Murrow told his stories of the hardness of the Londoners, moving on through their lives as best they could. Their way of thumbing their nose at Germany. How brave those people were, Murrow always hinted at and Alfred feared he would start to believe—he could not be sympathetic to people he could not and would not help. He waited for the broadcast to end.  
  
There was a long pause, and then Murrow said, voice quiet and deadly, saturated with his frustration and desperation: “Perhaps you can relax as these people did after Munich… But consider what’s happened in the last two years and try to ignore what the next two years will bring—if you can.”  
  
The radio clicked away into static.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
It was a few days later, in the beginning of October, with the Blitz continuing its destruction in London, that the US ambassador to Britain returned to Washington, for good. Alfred was in the White House visiting the first lady, as he did every other week, schedules permitting. Eleanor was always kind enough to set up a bedroom for him, and he would oftentimes spend days in the White House with the president and his family—and sometimes alone, traveling the halls he knew by heart, remember each president who’d come and gone. He appreciated the distraction from his duties, since peacetime often left Alfred with little to do. It was also a necessary distraction now; even with a few days’ time between him and Murrow’s broadcast, Murrow’s closing statements still haunted Alfred. But he tried not to focus on it. He was in the White House now, in his own country with his own people, people who loved him and were safe from war. Even if Franklin was a bit cold at times, Alfred loved him as he loved all his bosses, for all their faults and for all their virtues.  
  
Setting back to his room to fetch his coat so he could walk with the first lady in the rose garden, Alfred passed a door left ajar and heard it then: “England is gone.”  
  
Alfred, despite himself, froze in his steps, unable to move for one brief moment. For one brief moment, he felt his heart stop in the shock of hearing such a statement. He hadn’t listened to Murrow for a few days now, he hadn’t been paying attention to the news—had the United Kingdom finally—?  
  
Before he could realize what he was doing, recognize the startled look on his face, Alfred backtracked, standing at the crack in the door and peering in. Franklin was there, as well as the ambassador to the United Kingdom, Joseph Kennedy.  
  
“I will devote now my efforts to what seems to me,” Kennedy said, face grim, back straight, “to be the greatest cause in the world today.”  
  
Franklin said nothing at first, and Alfred gripped the doorframe, feeling his body shake.  
  
“And that is to help you, Mr. President, in keeping the United States out of war,” he finished.  
  
There was a long pause. Alfred weighed the words. He was still shaking, which was utterly ridiculous. He told himself to calm down, pressing up against the wall, staring into the room. Kennedy was talking about the country, not the person. There was no way to know if he was actually gone. There was no reason for him to even _care._ By all means, Alfred should be pleased—if his people were anything to go by. Even now, there were many of his people who hated the British. So the abrupt reaction he felt at the words was something that was a little more than silly. Unnecessary. He should be relieved.  
  
“I will not return to Britain,” Kennedy continued. “It is beyond hope now. What matters now is staying away from this conflict, and getting the Americans out of Britain while they’re still in one piece”  
  
There was another pause and Alfred lingered, wondering why it was that Franklin didn’t say anything—why wasn’t his boss _saying_ anything? Of course, with such thoughts it was only a matter of time that his president and boss headed his words.  
  
“Alfred,” Franklin said suddenly and Alfred startled, rearing back a bit. “Don’t linger in the doorway. This concerns you. Come in.”  
  
“It doesn’t concern me that much,” Alfred muttered, loud enough that his boss would hear.  
  
He was rewarded with a look.  
  
Guilty, Alfred opened the door the rest of the way and walked in. Franklin didn’t smile, but there was a touch of a smile in his eyes. He stopped a few feet away from the two men. Kennedy watched him, unsure at first who this young boy could be. He glanced back at Franklin, and Franklin finally did smile, nodding towards Alfred.  
  
“This is who you’ve just sworn to protect, Mister Ambassador.”  
  
When Kennedy looked back at Alfred, there was still the slightest look of confusion. Alfred waited for comprehension to dawn, and sure enough it only took a few moments before there was a spark in the ambassador’s eyes and he stood up straighter. He understood now who stood before him and his lips thinned out to a taut, terse line. He stared at his country personified with a look of awe and respect, but that same, strange childlike wonder all his citizens got when they realized for the first time who he was, really.  
  
Kennedy stepped forward, grim-faced but open, and clapped a hand on Alfred’s shoulder.  
  
“We’ll protect you, my country.”  
  
Alfred didn’t say anything, but glanced between Kennedy and the president, who watched the two while betraying nothing on his face. Alfred swallowed thickly and nodded, understanding.  
  
 _England is gone._  
  
England is gone.  
  
England is gone.  
  
The hand slipped away from his shoulder and Kennedy stepped back. He, like so many others, was never sure how to treat him. It was not every day that one met his country. America never begrudged his people for the uneasiness.  
  
 _England is gone._  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 **Notes:**  
  
\- [Edward Murrow](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_R._Murrow) was head of CBS news in Europe during the second world war, and stayed in England during the duration of the war, recording broadcasts about the Blitz. Everything Murrow says in this prologue is from actual broadcasts.  
  
\- [The Blitz](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Blitz) and [the German air force](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_Luftwaffe_during_World_War_II). From September 7 on, London would endure fifty-seven straight nights of relentless bombing. Until then, no other city in history had ever been subjected to such an onslaught. Warsaw and Rotterdam had been heavily bombed by the Germans early in the war, but not for the length of time as of the assault on London.  
  
\- Murrow’s broadcasts on the Blitz became incredibly popular in the United States, and actually helped change US Americans’ attitudes on the war to a more sympathetic light, as at that time US opinion of the UK was incredibly sour, due to US American opinion that Britain had tricked the US into WWI. Within one month, public opinion in the USA changed due to Murrow’s post: it went from 39% of US Americans favoring more US aid to Britain to 54%.  
  
\- “Perhaps you can relax as these people did after Munich… But consider what’s happened in the last two years and try to ignore what the next two years will bring—if you can.” Actual closing statement by Murrow, and referring to the [Munich Agreement.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Munich_Agreement)  
  
\- Joseph Kennedy was the US ambassador to Britain, but abandoned the UK in its dire hour and proclaimed it a dying nation in the wake of the Blitz’s damage. He urged all US Americans staying in Britain to leave back to the USA and for the United States to sever ties with the UK in favor of keeping itself out of war. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Winant has brought Alfred to England, for whatever purposes Alfred can only assume. Alfred finds adjusting to this foreign, yet familiar, land to be less than relevant to himself.
> 
> Time stamp: March of 1941.

He still didn’t know why he was there.   
  
The train rattled along the grey countryside, a loud, squeaking machine. And as he stared out the window, watching the scenery roll by—pretending the squealing of the wheels against the track wasn’t distracting—he continued to wonder just that. This country was dark and dun, nothing that he would ever want to be near. Not when there was something much better he’d left behind, not when there was _home_ so far away from where he was. He tried his hardest to have a stone-face, like he’d seen so many others of his kind hold before, when trying to hide how they felt. The scenery continued to roll by, and Alfred did his best not to pay it any mind while also keeping his mind from wandering. He periodically closed his eyes, only to snap them open again when he was faced with images he didn’t wish to see. He felt almost childish, caught doing something wrong and now forced to face the consequences of his actions. He crossed his arms, wanted to rest his face against the glass—resisted. He kept his back straight.   
  
John Winant sat across from him in the compartment, hands in his lap. He was a quiet man, took a long while to say what was on his mind. But there was something charming about him, something that made him likeable. He was a lot different from how Joseph Kennedy had been, months ago. That time seemed so long ago—it was almost spring now. Alfred could still remember Kennedy: his fearful, dismissive words. Winant seemed to be a welcomed reprieve, and the March weather greeted him as such. With rain. How very like England.   
  
Winant’s head was bowed, as if maybe he, too, was resisting the urge to fall asleep. Or perhaps he was in deep thought. Alfred could never be sure—it was hard to place him. They’d been traveling for a while now, to get to this point. But even so, Alfred felt lost. Alfred cleared his throat, not sure what else to do. Winant snapped his face up, looked bewildered by the sudden breaking of the silence. Their eyes locked for half a moment, and no words passed. Alfred looked away. Looking out at the scenery, out at the landscape, it was impossible to know that thousands of Britons had already died. The land seemed untouched, untroubled—it was so alarmingly like Alfred’s own lands that he felt unnerved for a moment. He didn’t have anywhere else to look, though. This place—  
  
“… England,” Alfred murmured, before he could stop himself. The word felt foreign on his tongue, and he couldn’t summon up the courage to say his _name._   
  
Winant was looking at him, though, as if he knew what Alfred was thinking. “It’s… very beautiful, isn’t it? Have you visited before?”  
  
There was a long pause in which Alfred debated lying. But Winant would know, instantly, that it was a lie—everyone would know it’s a lie. Anyone that knew Alfred’s history with—England would know it was a lie. Alfred didn’t move for a moment. Then, he shook his head, then paused, then nodded. He stayed silent. Then he nodded again. Abruptly, suddenly, the urge to speak pressed against his throat and he said, very quietly, “A long time ago… I hardly remember it now.”   
  
Days of his youth, days after his revolution—  
  
He didn’t think back on it that often. Let the past be the past. He didn’t want to linger. The images, if he allowed them, were suffocating in their clearness.   
  
Winant was smiling that strange smile of his, the one that looked awkward in an overly endearing way. “You’ll have a chance now to reacquaint yourself with England, then.”  
  
Alfred felt his shoulders tighten just a tad, and knew at once that Winant had noticed it. He didn’t say anything, and they lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. At least, it was uncomfortable for Alfred.   
  
Alfred watched out of the corner of his eye as Winant straightened, licked his lips, calculated his words. “Alfred…” He paused, longer still. It was what made Winant such a thoughtful person, but such an excruciating speech-deliever—he took so long to collect his words, stumbled over them once he found them, and left conversations fall to a grinding halt. “You must understand, Alfred, how dire this situation is.”  
  
There was another long silence, one in which Alfred did not want to relive Murrow’s broadcasts from months before, back in the autumn and winter. It was spring now. It’d been the coldest winter for Britain in years, and with the U-boats wrecking havoc on Britain’s food supplies while bombing the major cities—it was only a matter of time. Only a matter of time before—  
  
He didn’t—  
  
Alfred derailed his thoughts. Quietly, he said, “I know it is.”  
  
He didn’t look at Winant, didn’t want to see his expression. There was no reason that Alfred could see for why he was here. There was no reason that Winant, upon learning Alfred’s identity, would insist on him coming to England with him. There was absolutely no reason why the president would have made Alfred go. _Made_ him go. He was not here by choice. He would never again return to England by choice. He should have been at home, with his people. He should be working, working to make his people happy and prosperous again. If he was supposed to represent his people and what they thought, how would they feel to know that their country was sitting in a train shooting across the countryside to go meet England’s _king?_   
  
“They call your job the hardest one the president could have given you,” Alfred said, turning the focus away from himself and back towards the US ambassador. It was easier, this way, to talk about people who weren’t himself.   
  
Winant was quiet for a long moment. It seemed the entire train ride would always be in long stretches of silence, and there was nothing Alfred hated more than the silence. But then, Winant spoke: “It is. I have to explain… to a country and its people that is being bombed daily that a country safely three-thousand miles away wants to help but will not fight.”  
  
Alfred looked up sharply at him, opened his mouth to speak. The words lodged, heaved, and stuck. There was no sound that passed, and Alfred’s mind raced with all the lies he could say, all the excuses, everything. Everything. There was so much he wanted to say, so much that was churning in his gut to be spoken, to be heard. He thought better of it, though, and looked away, his eyes narrowing.   
  
Winant, however, seemed to have not expected Alfred to speak. “That is a difficult thing to tell a person whose home as been destroyed by a bomb.”   
  
A chill ran down Alfred’s spine. His stomach coiled. He remembered the broadcasts, the sound of shrapnel and falling bombs, of screams. Remembered the descriptions of the destroyed buildings, of the blackouts at night, to try to shroud a city in darkness. For protection. Fires. All the fires.   
  
“But,” Winant said, and Alfred looked up again. “It’s worth it. It’s worth it… if England will survive.”   
  
Alfred felt as if he should look away, but he could not. He resisted the urge to shudder, felt the goose bumps springing across his skin despite himself. So he just looked at Winant, petrified to the spot, his eyes wide, his shoulders tense. He swallowed a thick lump in his throat—wondered how England would look. How _Arthur_ must look. If he could remember anything about him from the Great War, from the times long before then… he knew that he would not be happy to see _him_ , not without more aid.   
  
And then that left him, once again, wondering why he was even thinking about England. Why he even cared what that old man was doing, how he looked. It wasn’t his business. If his people wanted to help, good for them. He would not enter this war.   
  
“I don’t see why it even matters,” Alfred said, feeling again very much like a small child being contrary for the sake of being contrary, “or why I’m even here.”   
  
Winant smiled, a calm, almost sad smile. “Because of who you are, Alfred… America. I want you to see the world beyond your own borders. You’ve been in isolation for too long.”  
  
 _Seeing the way the world is now, I don’t know if isolation is that bad,_ Alfred couldn’t help but think. Especially being in England. He had yet to see the full devastation of the Blitz, but he knew of the troubles. He knew of the possibility of a cross-channel invasion from Germany, knew of British soldiers’ lack of proper supplies, stretched thin and on the defensive, knew of the U-boats sinking as many merchant ships as possible and strangling the supply lines. _It’s only a matter of time before—_  
  
“There are many times here for people when it is as if the sands of time will run out and it will all be over,” Winant said, as if reading Alfred’s mind. Alfred didn’t answer. He watched the landscape shift and change, fade and flux.   
  
“You really have no misgivings about taking this job?” Alfred asked, after a long silence, filled with thoughts Alfred would rather avoid. This country was dark, was fierce, but he could feel the dwindling hope, could feel the small flame of something, something trying to keep going. He didn’t know whether or not it was possible to keep going.   
  
Winant smiled. “None.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
When Winant and Alfred arrived at the station, King George VI was waiting there, with the rest of his entourage. It was unprecedented, to see the monarchy standing there on the train station. Alfred hesitated, just slightly—he never knew how to act around kings anymore. He’d worked so hard to break away from the monarchy so long ago, but he couldn’t help but feel a slight amount of awe when he saw them (though if asked, he would adamantly deny it). He inhaled sharply, felt as if his head was caught in a waking dream. He wanted to wake up now. He wanted to be home, not in a place that twisted in his heart like a strange warping of his home. He didn’t want to feel any familiarity of a place he’d left behind centuries ago.   
  
But he followed Winant out of the train’s compartment, regardless, and stepped down onto the platform. He swallowed thickly. The king greeted Winant. Alfred stayed behind, lingering among the men. While he knew that, obviously, the king would be high-ranking enough to know who Alfred was, he didn’t feel comfortable having to confront the king. He felt almost a bit in awe, really, but really he never got on well with England’s monarchy, not anymore. It was probably better. And really, the king had no reason to be able to recognize Alfred for who he was—to him, he might as well be another face in the crowd. Regardless, he kept his head down.   
  
“I am glad to welcome you here,” the king told Winant.   
  
Alfred lifted his head, looking around for the other like him. England was not in the crowd, though, and really Alfred hadn’t expected him to be there. Despite himself, Alfred felt himself relax just a little, his shoulders slumping. Something drained out of him, and he felt empty, standing there on the platform, surrounding by people who weren’t his own. England probably looked awful, Alfred thought, with a small amount of pity and more smugness than was really necessary. His people were bombed, stretched-thin, and starving. England undoubtedly looked the same, reflecting his people’s gaunt faces. That was not something he wanted to see, and really, he didn’t want to see England at all. He just wanted to go home, but if his president sent him here and Winant insisted, he really didn’t have anything he could do about it.   
  
The king and the ambassador were speaking together, but Alfred’s mind had drifted. His eyes lingered over the dwindling landscape that Alfred could see from the train platform, and the bile rose in his throat. He tried to ignore it. He clenched his eyes shut, felt the people thrumming and living around him—and they were not his.   
  
Winant wanted him to break his isolation. But, he’d never felt so alone.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“It’s remarkable,” Winant said.   
  
Alfred looked over at him, an unspoken question in his eyes. They were traveling, making their way to where they would be staying in London. The scenery was achingly familiar, and Alfred was happy for a distraction, to be able to fix his eyes on an unchanging, _American_ face.   
  
Winant shook his head. “That King George himself…”  
  
“What do you mean?” Alfred asked, brow scrunching up.   
  
The US ambassador stroked his chin for a moment and looked nervous, collecting his words as best he could. “Well,” he said, wetting his lips. “It usually takes months to get an audience with the king—and then you will go to him, he will not come to you. For him to be there in the train station… that breaking of protocol, merely for an ambassador, speaks volumes.”   
  
“… That they really want our help?”  
  
“Your help, yes,” Winant agreed with a small nod. “Britain’s only chance of survival is if we give more aid—or enter the war.”  
  
An icy chill ran down Alfred’s spine again and he inhaled and exhaled once before saying, “I am neutral.”  
  
“Of course, Alfred, I know.” Winant paused, and then sighed. “I know.”  
  
“Do they really need us that badly?”  
  
“Yes,” Winant said without hesitation. There was so much packed into that one word, and Alfred had to, once again, look away.  
  
He cursed himself for feeling so weak in the face of just one human. But he could feel Winant’s disapproval of his neutrality, could feel him trying to rip him from his protections and his isolation. He was forcing him out into the world, and was doing so by dragging him to the one place he never wanted to be again. Being back in England was bittersweet—he hadn’t been there since he’d gone over with another US ambassador, John Adams. And before then, it’d been decades since he’d been to England, as a young boy colony, hanging onto Arthur’s—rather—England’s tailcoats as they weaved between the streets of London. He’d felt so much different during those times. As a boy, he’d been stir-crazy from such a long boat ride, felt overloaded from the new scenery. As a young nation, he’d faced the sneers and the frustrations of England’s people, knew they did not take the young upstart and its ambassador seriously. Now, he already felt tired of England. He could feel the fatigue, feel how it was already battle-torn and smoothed. So many of his people had written Britain off—dead in the water, just a small island nation—and he understood why that would be the case. Germany was a full-fledged fighting force, and how could England, despite its military glory, be able to withstand that without supplies and aid?  
  
“I’m neutral,” Alfred said again, and Winant looked back over at him.   
  
“I know,” Winant said. “You do not need to convince me.”  
  
“But you’re trying to convince me otherwise,” Alfred said, “by bringing me here. You’re hoping that if I see it for my own eyes, I’ll be able to sway public opinion. But it doesn’t work that way—I don’t shape my people, my people shape me.”  
  
Winant regarded him, for a long moment, as if staring straight into him. Alfred did not squirm, refused to do so. He was far too used to people looking at him like that, far too used to the scrutinizing. Winant had given him the same look when they’d met for the first time, truly met, as man to his country. Many people gave him such a look, but with Winant, the look was very calculating, very intense—and all the while, Winant said nothing, or was trying to find the words to say what he was thinking.   
  
Then, slowly, the ambassador tilted his head and looked away, and Alfred wasn’t sure what it was that he wanted to say—or why he didn’t say it at all.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Alfred watched as reporters pressed up closer to Winant, asking their questions. Winant looked more than uncomfortable, but in the way he always looked slightly uncomfortable. The press was there, had been there for several minutes now. It felt like hours to Alfred. He just wanted to go and rest. He wanted to go home.   
  
“I’m very glad to be here,” Winant said, smiling that half-awkward smile of his. “There is no place Id’ rather be at this time than in England.”  
  
Alfred stood off to the side, listening to Winant’s words. He looked down at his feet, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Winant had to be slightly off his kilter. He had such a bleeding heart for this country, for the people—and he was crazy enough to want to be here. True, the bombs hadn’t been coming as frequently. In fact, it’d been a while since they’d last fallen, apparently, and according to Winant, the people looked healthier than they had last year. Perhaps happier. Alfred found it hard to believe, and didn’t want to imagine—but it was so easy to do so. He’d listened to the radio broadcasts, he knew what the people here had been up against for months on end.   
  
There was no other place he’d rather not be than England, frankly. It was rainy, gray, and unhappy. And he knew it was only a matter of time before he had to see England himself—and he didn’t want to. There was no one he would rather never see again. He could see England’s features perfectly in his mind, knew all his expressions—or, at least, expressions he’d once given him. Those were faces he would probably never see again—the smile, the love, the—  
  
He really didn’t want to think about it.   
  
He would probably have to see England, soon. He felt a surge of something—hatred?—swell in his gut, before he forced it back down. It had to be hatred. His people hated the British. But at the same time, many of them wanted to help them—while staying out of the war, at least. All aid short of war. The conflicting emotions, conflicting ideals that pulsed inside him left him feeling disoriented at times, if he thought about it for too long. To help or to hate.   
  
When he looked up, though, looked past all the reporters to the British administrators and governmental workers, he saw him—  
  
England.  
  
He should have known he was there, should have realized that it would be sooner rather than later that he would see his old caretaker again. He wasn’t looking at Alfred, but undoubtedly he had to know that Alfred was there. He stood tall, his back straight, dressed in his military uniform, staring off away from even Winant. His hands were clenched behind his back, he could tell by the stilt of his shoulders. But he looked awful. He had the same grim look he always wore, though much harsher now, the lines far more engraved in his older face than even Alfred remembered—had he always looked that old? His eyes seemed almost sunken, his cheekbones more pronounced—starving. Paled, thin, sickly. Seeing him didn’t send a jolt to his heart like the time they’d seen each other for the first time before fighting alongside one another in the Great War. Somehow back then it’d been more shocking, to see him after so much time. Though the time since seeing him now was shorter, he still felt that jolt, though not like the times before. England looked different—thinner, wearier. Just when he thought the old bastard couldn’t get any more battle-hardened, he went to prove him wrong.   
  
Alfred realized dimly that he was openly staring, but England either hadn’t noticed or he had no interest in looking back at Alfred. It felt as if Alfred had crashed head-first into a dead end. He felt almost dizzy. Light-headed. What to do now, what to do?  
  
What if looked over?  
  
What if their eyes met for the first time in years?  
  
Why did he even _care_?  
  
He didn’t, he reminded himself. He looked away, turned his attention back towards Winant as Winant continued to answer questions to the reporters. They were smiling, and Alfred recognized that look of small, flickering hope. These people had hope—hope that the ambassador would somehow make things better. Alfred knew right away, despite Winant’s bumbling uncertainty, that he would be a hit in the newspapers the next day. These people were hanging on to the world by their eyelids, but they still were holding on.  
  
Alfred glanced back up towards where England stood. He was adjusting the cuffs of his military jacket, and his left hand moved slowly, his wrist stiff. Understandably, he’d be injured. Alfred wondered how many scars he must have now—  
  
He could remember, in his boyhood, seeing Arthur occasionally without his shirts, all his bells and whistles, see the jagged, old scars scraping across his body—stories that Arthur refused to tell Alfred. He’d shrug away into his clothing, hiding them from view, but Alfred remembered them—  
  
How many new scars did England have now?   
  
Alfred watched silently as a man standing beside England touched his shoulder, leaned in and whispered something in his ear. England’s eyes flickered, looking up at the sky. He was far away and Alfred could barely see him, couldn’t even think to hear him over the hum of reporters and Winant’s rumbling voice—but he could see those eyes. He remembered that green color, remembered seeing a world in those eyes he would never know and was only now beginning to understand.  
  
But these eyes were darker, now, somehow, clearly haunted.   
  
And those eyes, in turn, haunted Alfred.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“This is where we’ll be staying,” Winant said as the car parked. The sun was just starting to set, but even in darkness Alfred would have recognized Grosvenor Square. It brought back a flood of memories that Alfred quickly squashed down.   
  
Alfred pulled himself from the car and hoisted up their trunks and suitcases with little effort. If Winant was impressed, he kept it to himself, and Alfred followed him towards the apartment building—a new addition. When he looked over his shoulder at the rest of the square, he could pick out the house Adams and his wife used to live in, during his time as ambassador, all those years ago. But the rest seemed foreign—Neo-Georgian apartment and office buildings, recently built. Though the bombs could have tricked him otherwise. There was a full-sized crater from impact in the center of the square, dusty and surrounded with service vehicles. And huts, wooden and taking the place of where there once had been lawns and a tennis court.   
  
“This way,” Winant called and Alfred snapped back to attention, taking the stairs two steps at a time to catch up to the ambassador, leaving his memories behind.   
  
“It’s good you’re so close to the embassy,” Alfred said, catching up to him. He walked alongside the ambassador, as best he could, at least, while carrying all their things.   
  
It was strange, to return to this place. The world kept changing, and yet he felt completely the same—perhaps a little older. But in the grand scheme of things, he was still young. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted the others to know, so much he wanted to understand himself. But there were just words, just whispers—  
  
Looking at this place now, it was like looking at a reflection in the back of a spoon. If the moment could only be real for one moment—  
  
Winant opened the door to Alfred’s apartment and showed him where to leave his things. They walked down to Winant’s place, and Alfred deposited the rest of his luggage, dusting his hands off once he was done, happy for the distraction.   
  
“It’s already so different,” he said, looking out the window again at the dusty, destroyed center of the square. “This place, I mean.”  
  
Winant made a small grunting noise, already snapping up the snaps on his trunk, searching through it for necessary papers and wrinkled clothing, stuffed in there ever since the ship had landed in port.   
  
Alfred knew his ambassador was shy, didn’t speak well, so he took the grunt as an invitation to keep speaking. “When I was last here, it was with John Adams.”  
  
Winant paused, looking up at him.  
  
Alfred felt a bit self-conscious, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck. It was strange, talking about his memories with common humans—with the other nations, they understood, accepted it intrinsically, far better than he did, actually, considering their ages—and with his bosses, they seemed more schooled in his ways as a nation. But other people, they always stared at him in such wonderment.   
  
He cleared his throat. “Everyone was really condescending to us. I mean, they were here in 1785… it was to be expected. I didn’t want to come, but somehow I was convinced to visit—and I never came back after it.”  
  
He shifted, walked to the window and leaned against the windowpane, staring out at the darkening sky. There were no lights dotting the horizon—the black-out was coming, the preparations for a possible attack. It’d been a while since the Luftwaffe had returned, but London had no intentions of taking any chances.   
  
Alfred was quiet for a long while, eyes hooded and lips pressed together in a thin line.   
  
“I…” he began, and turned to glance at Winant over his shoulder, who had not moved since Alfred had begun to speak. Alfred turned away again, quickly, before his face could flush. “This place was really beautiful, then. Nothing like now. There were all these gardens and gravel paths. There was some kind of… statute thing of George. It was a nice place to live,” he said, then snorted, “provided you weren’t from the United States.”  
  
Alfred folded his arms, tapped his fingers against his arms as his head lolled against the windowpane. He snorted, softly.  
  
“The Adams’ neighbors treated us with total disdain. None of them expected me to survive as a nation, and for as long as I was alive the aristocrats were content ignoring my representation.”  
  
He looked down.  
  
“He hated me. England.”   
  
He expected Winant to rise to England’s defense, but the ambassador said nothing. Still feeling self-conscious, Alfred felt the need to keep talking, to somehow fill the silence—justifications, excuses, remembrances he told himself he did not want to remember.  
  
“And I hated—hate him.” He inhaled, and exhaled—felt the air slip through his lungs, felt as if he hadn’t breathed at all, forgot how to breathe. “Abigail—Adams’ wife—she said that the British were civil, but with disguised coldness… it covered malignant hearts.”   
  
He stepped away from the window, turned away from the carnage in the square. Winant was facing him, back straight, expression thoughtful. He could see the cogs moving in his head, see Winant’s attempts to find the words.   
  
Alfred gave him a small smile and a shrug of his shoulders. “It must kill them to need my help now, ya know? Must be killing England.”  
  
“England needs us too much for the people here to be outwardly condescending.”  
  
Alfred snorted. “Heh.” He stepped forward, helping pick Winant’s things up and moving towards the bedroom for him. “They’re groveling now.”   
  
Winant didn’t follow him and waited to speak until Alfred turned to face him, expression benign. The ambassador regarded him with something like defiance, something akin to disappointment: “You’re proud of that?”   
  
Alfred froze, eyes flying open wide.   
  
Winant watched him.   
  
Finally, the young nation had to look away, trudged away to practically throw his trunk into Winant’s bedroom.  
  
 _Yes, yes I am. I don’t want anything to do with him anymore,_ he wanted to say, wanted to scream, _The longer I have to stay here and see England and his people and his landscape the sicker I get. I don’t want to know him, I don’t want to help him—_  
  
I don’t want to—  
  
England is gone.   
  
Alfred stormed back to his room, threw up the lock, and sat in the darkness of London’s black-out for the rest of the night.   
  
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**  
  
\- [John Winant](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Gilbert_Winant) was the US ambassador to Britain after Joseph Kennedy resigned. He is one of the most important figures in WWII history, and yet most Americans have no idea who he is, or have never heard of him. Winant had a very, very difficult job. In the six months leading up to his appointment as ambassador, the Luftwaffe had killed tens of thousands of British in attacks on London and other cities. Additionally, as Alfred mentions in the chapter itself, the British armed forces didn’t have good arms or ammunition or supplies, and were constantly on the defensive; German U-boats were sinking merchant ships in the Atlantic, leaving many British to starve or face starvation in one of the coldest winters ever recorded in England; all that and also the fact that a cross-channel invasion by Germany seemed ever looming and a very distinct possibility.   
  
\- During all this, most British officials and British people believed that the UK’s only hope for survival against such a foe was to get USAmerican help. The USAmericans had been giving aid up to that point, but the aid had been dismal at best, despite Roosevelt’s reassurance that the US would give “all aid short of war.” Many in Washington had written the UK off, as a small island nation that couldn’t possibly stand against such a fighting force as Germany, no matter how glorious the military past may have been. Faced with all these trials, Churchill, meanwhile, believed that Britain could survive provided that the reluctant US could be persuaded to enter the war.   
  
\- And despite that clusterfuck of “oh my god this is awful”-ness, Winant had no reservations in taking the job as US ambassador. His words to the press are his actual words, and Winant, after such a lackluster, defeatist ambassador like Kennedy, was a huge hit in the newspapers and among the people. The president was reportedly with questionable rationale for appointing Winant, mostly to get rid of a possible opponent, but Winant believed that the US needed to break its isolationist shell, was happy to take the job.   
  
\- During this time, yes, the US had gone back into isolationism after the Great War, which many USAmericans viewed as not worth their time. The only reason they entered that war, they believe, was because of the wiles of the British. Hence the anti-British attitude in most officials in Washington during this time.   
  
\- King George VI indeed met Winant at the train station, and it was a huge breach of protocol, as Winant explains in the chapter itself. It demonstrated just how serious the UK was in wanting US help, to the point where the king would leave the protocol behind to greet someone as small as an ambassador.   
  
\- The US embassy in London, [Grosvenor Square](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grosvenor_Square), is also where John Adams stayed with his wife, as the first envoy to Britain after the revolutionary war. The Adams couple stayed there from 1785 to 1788, and their stay was not pleasant. They were greeted with resentment and dismissal by a country that’d so recently lost its American colonies. Alfred’s account of John and Abigail’s stay there, and Abigail’s attitude towards the British, are all true.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks pass, and Alfred is still counting down the days. It isn't until Winant forces him out that Alfred finally acknowledges what he's been avoiding for weeks.
> 
> Time stamp: March of 1941.

The next day, Winant was off to the embassy in the early morning, doing his work and what he was sent to do. Alfred didn’t _have_ work—he was here for no discernable reason, except to be used as a means to touch the bleeding hearts of his people, no matter how few there may be. It was nothing short of frustrating, and tried as he might, Alfred couldn’t keep his mind from wandering to things he’d rather not think about. While, at the same time, he was left completely unable to do anything to keep his mind off things. Waking up in a place that wasn’t his home didn’t do much for Alfred’s mood—how he longed to go back home, to be with his people, to be away from the smells and sights of war. _If it can even be called war,_ he thought, _There are only civilians here._   
  
_It’s only a matter of time before—_  
  
He derailed his thoughts, rolled over on his bed and pulled the duvet up to his ears. But his heart was pounding, and he couldn’t fall back to sleep. He sighed, and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling moodily. He blinked a few times, felt his heart clench, and then tried to think about something mediocre, something that didn’t have an emotional train wreck hiding in the wings.  
  
Nothing came to him. It was extremely hard to think of _nothing._   
  
Pulling himself from bed, Alfred dressed and prepared for what was shaping up to be a very long day. Even the birdsong outside his window didn’t sound familiar. Everything was foreign. Everything was far away—disconnected, disconcerted. He didn’t belong here, he would never belong here again—  
  
He’d never belonged here. Nothing was what it was supposed to be. There was nothing that could convince him, nothing that could soothe the burning ache in the pit of his gut. Even the bits and pieces he did recognize about this place—the square—were different and unlike anything he knew. There was nothing that he could hold onto.   
  
There was nothing he could get back.   
  
Despite the emotional turmoil so early in the morning, Alfred was thankful for the day alone. It was enough for him to collect his thoughts, readjust (or adjust for the first time) to such a strange, different place with the ghosts and shadows of things he may have once recognized. He was hardly one to chase a shadow, though; never again.   
  
It was early morning and Alfred went out walking, just for the hope of clearing his head, keeping his chin up because he would be damned if he let any of England’s people see him as anything less than confident. Once he’d left the square, things turned substantially less familiar and pretty. London was an ugly place to look at, he thought—  
  
Destroyed buildings, blasted out windows, gutted streets. He could remember the London of his youth, if he wanted to, and he didn’t want to rememebr—but it never looked like this. Boarded up windows, destroyed windows. Lines leading to nowhere, Londoners standing in line for the sake of standing in line, for the sake of maybe getting an onion. Or something. Anything. Anything that could abate the gnawing hunger, the bitter cold.   
  
“You really are falling apart, old man,” he said absently to himself, turning his face away from the boarded up windows, in the off-chance he’d catch his reflection in a small glimmer of shattered glass. He didn’t want to know what his expression looked like.   
  
Alfred pulled out his carton of cigarettes, pressed his mouth to the sticks of tobacco until one stuck to his dry lip. He bit it between his teeth, almost chewed it to bits before he caught himself doing it and stopped at once. He frowned, eyes flickering as he lit a match and lit the cigarette. The end burned and a sliver of smoke curled as Alfred inhaled sharply. He breathed out, a highway of smoke filtering around his head before drifting away to nothing. The sky above was a very sad looking grey. He smoked the cigarette as he walked until he reached the filter and let it fall to the ground, crushing it beneath his heel.   
  
It was a cold day in March, though the clouds above didn’t suggest rain. Alfred hid in his coat and walked against the breeze drifting through the streets of London, his shoulders hunched up near his ears, his body bent over himself. The people around him seemed colder, though, their jackets thin and threadbare. Their eyes stared at him as he passed, their eyes on his second cigarette.   
  
_Why am I even here? It’s not like it’ll do anyone any good for me to be here. It’s not like England wants me here because of anything beyond politics,_ he thought as he walked, his eyes watering when a particularly blustery wind swept through the cold street and he shivered inside his jacket. He ducked his head, rubbing vigorously at his eyes with cold, red fingers. He sniffed, and curled further into his jacket. _Why don’t I just go back? It’s not going to make any difference and I don’t want to see England, either, anyway._  
  
His ears were red from the cold and the wind, and they kept ringing. He could hear the ringing in his ears, the words he tried so desperately to avoid hearing in his own mind. Though, if asked the reason why he didn’t want to hear it, he wouldn’t have been able to say why. Those words, they rang out, loud and bitter and clear—  
  
 _England is gone._  
  
He watched the skeletons of people walking down the street—they looked so cold, so desolate. It was only a matter of time before they fell, only a matter of time before—  
  
 _England is gone._  
  
Alfred bumped into someone. “Uh—sorry.”  
  
The man looked up, eyes on his cigarette before meeting his gaze and offering that tight-lipped smile that Alfred always associated with England’s own smiles.   
  
“It’s quite alright,” he said, “No harm done.”  
  
And with that, he turned away and kept walking, never looking back. Alfred watched him go, his body feeling too cold.   
  
Being in England again, after so long, was too strange, too horrible. Alfred looked away from the man’s retreating frame—too kind, somehow, too proud. These people weren’t skeletons, though their faces were gaunt and pale, their bodies thin and nimble. They were living, breathing people—England’s people. And like England, they were not falling into the dirt and dying as the bombs fell—  
  
He remembered Murrow’s broadcasts. They kept going, they kept living, they did everything they could. Despite the weak layers of clothing, the dwindling supplies and the inflation, they were alive.   
  
It was too strange, to be here. Alfred felt far too exposed, far too used to comfort and silence, to fireworks in the summer and bright city lights that never went out, buildings that scraped the sky, lands that remained unscarred, unburdened by foreign invaders. The hum of airplanes did not strike fear into his people’s hearts, but rather caused them elation, waving their boys home from a job well done.   
  
England was everything he did not want to see, everything he wished he could ignore. He wanted to back away, wanted to fly away, leave, leave, leave. He remembered England, he remembered London—from the visits of his youth. A young child, clinging to England’s coattails, meeting the royal family, staring at the streets from a carriage window, listening to the unfamiliar calls in the night but know the familiar feeling of England holding him in his arms until he stopped crying from nightmares. He remembered England, he remembered London—from the visit, the single visit, after the Revolution. That single visit when he’d promised never to return again. He hadn’t seen England then, because he had refused to see Alfred. But his people had made their opinions loud and clear: their disdain when they discerned his accent, their condescending and dismissive behavior as they turned their backs on him—  
  
He hadn’t wanted to know them. He hated them. He hated them all so much, despised everything they had put him through. Tyrants. Aristocrats. They couldn’t understand what it was like to live on his soil—  
  
He’d never wanted to come back. He’d never wanted to know England again, never wanted to see the place England called home, see the place that always took England away from Alfred as a child. Never again.   
  
And yet here he was, and the look in England’s eyes the day before, at the press conference, still haunted his thoughts, a look he saw reflected in the people’s eyes:  
  
Prideful, hopeful, fading. Fading away slowly and refusing to believe it—  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Alfred had absolutely no idea where he was. London was too different for him to even begin to comprehend. Even if London hadn’t changed drastically since the times he’d visited, Alfred would probably have had a hard time figuring out the streets, or where to go to get back to his apartment. And he didn’t want to stop and ask for directions. He didn’t want to have to talk to England’s people, have them hear his accent and look at him with the same disdain they had centuries before—or worse, look at him with that hope, as if he was there to save them personally.   
  
The bombs hadn’t fallen the night before, and apparently they hadn’t in a while—that was good. It was bad enough being stuck in London, and even worse if he had to put up with the Blitz. It was enough listening to the radio broadcasts. That was enough for him. It wasn’t as if he cared about—  
  
 _Screams. Sirens. The whistle of bombs. Explosions. More screams. Rumbling, shattering, crushing._  
  
—And in any case, he didn’t plan to stay for long. The boat across the Atlantic was rather long at times, especially with the U-boat situation, and he hated the ride over. But, he reasoned, it was always nicer to come home than to leave home. The ride back to his continent would pass quickly, if he knew he would be safe at home at the end of the journey, and he would never have to leave again.  
  
Break his isolation, Winant had said. Yeah, right.   
  
“If anything,” Alfred muttered to himself, kicking at a pebble. It skirted across the road before falling into the gutter. “This has only convinced me that isolation is the way to go—if this is the world outside, I have no intention in involving myself with Europe again.”  
  
 _Sirens. Screams. Bombs. Explosions. England is gone, England is gone, England is gone—it’s only a matter of time before it falls—_  
  
Alfred kicked at another rock, though this time with far too much force. It soared through the air before crashing into an already half-broken window. The building was abandoned, so no one noticed it, but Alfred cringed and looked around guiltily. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, burrowed his chin into the collar of his jacket and wished the cold away, wished he was back home where the weather was already getting better—no rain included.  
  
“Fuck!” he shouted, and no one was around to cringe at the unruly display. “I don’t want to be _here!_ ”   
  
He stared glumly at the ground, and then sighed, turning around and walking back the way he’d come, in search of someone he could ask for directions. He wandered for about twenty minutes before he found a man sitting on a bench. He approached him, hesitated, and then stood in front of him. The man looked up, tipped his hat—he looked far too tired, just like everyone else on this soggy island.   
  
“Hi. Uh. Can you tell me the way back to Grosvenor Square?” Alfred asked, cheeks red from embarrassment more than the cold. He tried to speak quickly, so that maybe the man wouldn’t pick up on his accent.   
  
The man stared at him for a long moment, and then asked, “You work for the embassy?”   
  
“… Yeah,” Alfred said, shifting slightly and crossing his arms. Right. Even if the man didn’t notice the accent, he’d notice where he was headed.   
  
“Ah,” the man said, and somehow that was enough to say anything. When he smiled up at Alfred, it was much kinder than he’d ever seen from an Englishman, at least directed at him. Not since—  
  
The man tipped his hat again, standing, and taking Alfred’s hand. Alfred almost reeled back, unsure what to make of such a display. He swallowed thickly. The man shook his hand, smiling kindly.   
  
“Um—” Alfred began.  
  
“I’m sorry that you have to be here when we’re far from our prime,” the man said, with a gracious nod of his head, “but thank you for being here, young man. We have quite a bit of hope in Mister Winant.”  
  
“… I know,” Alfred said quietly, and pried his hand back, cradling it against his chest a moment before letting it drop down to his side. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, to prevent any other random display of appreciation that involved touching.   
  
The man’s smile turned awkward, obviously sensing Alfred’s hesitation and discomfort. He cleared his throat, took a step back, and quickly told Alfred the way back to Grosvenor Square.   
  
“Sorry,” Alfred said, and didn’t know what he was apologizing for—  
  
 _Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.  
  
I’m neutral. I can’t help you. I won’t help you. I’m supposed to hate you, you and your country. I want to leave. I don’t care what happens to you—yeah, it’s horrible that you’re starving, that you’re being bombed, that you are the last country standing in Europe against the Nazis. But I can’t do anything, I won’t do anything—_  
  
The ringing in his ears wouldn’t stop.   
  
_It’s only a matter of time—_  
  
He clenched his eyes shut.   
  
_Bombs. Sirens. Screams._  
  
The man tipped his hat. “Good luck to you. Getting home and—for everything you’re to do while you’re here.”  
  
And the man walked off after that, not looking back at Alfred. Alfred stayed in the park, standing there, dumbfounded. _How_ could it be so much more different now? The condescension, the hated, the dismissal—  
  
Well, obviously, because they were trying to woo him. They needed him.  
  
But they couldn’t take him. Never again. He was not to be used and then thrown away, he was not going to throw away the innocent lives of his people, sacrifice for them on something that didn’t even affect him.   
  
_I’m sorry._  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Ah, Alfred,” Winant said, looking up as Alfred slammed his way into the apartment and sank onto the couch, head in his hands. Winant hesitated. “… Are you alright?”  
  
Alfred just shook his head. Of course he couldn’t tell the ambassador how much he hated London, how much he hated the people, how much he—  
  
How much he was trying to convince himself of that hatred.   
  
“I just need to rest for a while,” Alfred said. “Are you staying here for the night, ambassador?”  
  
“Yes, I’m still unpacking,” Winant said.  
  
Alfred nodded and stretched out on the couch, making himself comfortable and closing his eyes. “I just need to be near one of my people.”   
  
Winant nodded, and went about his business, not speaking with Alfred unless Alfred reached out to him. Occasionally, whenever Winant passed, Alfred would reach out his hand, and touch the ambassador’s hand or his shirtsleeve. Winant always seemed startled by the touch, awkward, almost endearingly so, but he did not shrug Alfred away. Instead, he’d stand patiently, in case Alfred wished to speak. But all Alfred wanted was to touch, even briefly, the humming blood and song of an American—his people. His. No one else’s. The nation stayed silent, his mind reeling at one hundred miles a minute, thoughts floating in and out and whizzing past, flickering like a slideshow behind his closed eyelids.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“How have you enjoyed London so far, Alfred?” Winant asked, the next day, adjusting his cufflinks as he looked at himself in the mirror.  
  
Alfred watched him, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He shrugged his shoulders, noncommittal. He knew his ambassador’s opinions on England, and knew that Alfred’s true thoughts would upset him—  
  
He decided on a more diplomatic approach: “It’s alright.”   
  
Winant smiled a wan smile. “Oh?”  
  
Alfred sighed. “I don’t understand what you hope to accomplish by my being here, ambassador. Whatever it is, it isn’t going to work.”   
  
The ambassador didn’t say anything for a long moment. Cufflinks and sleeves well adjusted, he fiddled with the lapels of his jacket. Alfred sighed, sensing his ambassador’s distress, and stepped forward, adjusting his suit jacket and dusting off the shoulders for him. Winant smiled gratefully, and Alfred watched his face in the reflection.  
  
“It’s bound to be interesting, dinner with the prime minister,” Winant said, as if resuming a conversation they’d been having all along. Winant studied himself in the mirror. “And his family, of course.”   
  
“I’m sure you’ll have a swell time,” Alfred agreed, keeping his eyes down.  
  
The ambassador turned around, dropping his hands to his side. “… Won’t you come, as well?”  
  
Alfred automatically shook his head—dinner with the prime minister meant that England might be there. Guaranteed that Churchill would be there, and that was someone he would rather avoid, for as long as possible.   
  
“Naw,” he said, “You’ll be a hit all on your own. Have you read what the press is saying about you?”  
  
Winant’s ears turned red and he looked away. “The Prime Minister would be very pleased to meet you, Alfred.”  
  
“Of course he would,” Alfred said, walking away towards the window. He looked out over the square and the sky beyond. “Because he wants to use me, obviously.”  
  
“Alfred…” Winant began.  
  
But Alfred was too quick for him: “Don’t go on about how it’s some great thing, me being here. I hate it here, and you know I do. I’m already counting down the days until I can go home. They just want to use me, because I’m all they have left. And they’ll woo me and compliment me, as if there’s no bad blood between us—and I can’t _stand_ it. I don’t want to be used.”   
  
“No one is—”  
  
Alfred took advantage of the ambassador’s slow way of thinking and collecting his words, suddenly rambling, almost shouting. “London is _ugly._ This entire place—I never wanted to come back here. I have absolutely no intention of joining the war, and even when we _do_ give them aid, all they can whine about is how they should be getting more instead of being grateful! All those people out there in London—they look at me as if I should be bending over backwards to give them something when they _aren’t_ my problem! My first and only priority is my people!”   
  
He turned around to glare at Winant. The man stared at him calmly, his face tight and closed off. Alfred sucked in a sharp breath.   
  
“I’m—” Alfred began, and choked—wasn’t sure why he did it—“I won’t change my mind on this. I represent what my people think, and this is how it is.”   
  
Winant continued to stare at him, and Alfred met his gaze defiantly. Then, slowly, Winant let out a small, soft sigh, and turned away. He left the apartment without a word, off to have dinner with the prime minister and his family (and probably England, too).  
  
“Fuck!” Alfred shouted, and kicked over a chair—  
  
He hadn’t meant to upset the ambassador. Not him. He was the only one he had, here. But Winant had to be upset over those words. It had to be the case, and the spike of guilt twisted in his gut. Frowning, he picked up the chair and set it right before sinking into it, resting his head in his hands, palms flat against his face. He muttered curses to himself. Why couldn’t anyone understand?  
  
Even if he helped them, they would still hate him, still look down on him. They only looked at him now with such hope because they wanted his help. And the more he refused, the more they hated him. The more he gave, the more they wanted. It made Alfred’s heart twist—he was stuck between feeling like a boy and feeling like a man. But he was a nation, he was not a human. His first priority would always be his own people, and his feelings in the matter didn’t matter in the least—he was merely the embodiment of what others thought, felt, and executed. The world changed, but he stayed the same—  
  
And no one knew him.   
  
He inhaled sharply, hated how his breath rattled in a way that suggested upset. He was fine. He was _fine._  
  
He straightened and looked out the window again. He saw Adams’ house, from so long ago, with its blown-out windows. His bottom lip quivered, and for a silent moment, in the dark, he mourned for all the people he’d loved and lost centuries ago.   
  
He stood up from the chair, grabbed his jacket from the hook near the door, and marched outside. He climbed up the stairs of the embassy until he reached the roof. It was a clear night—beautiful, at least for him. For Londoners, a clear night was probably a night of peril, for clear skies meant easier targets for bombers. But there was no hum of airplane engines and no fires or bombs blasting in the distance. There was only calm, sweet peace.  
  
The stars were out. Alfred stared at them, kept his eyes wide open so he could see them. Without his glasses, they would have been nothing but blurred dots, but with them he could see them perfectly, trace the constellations by heart. Stars to travel by, stars to travel home by. There were so many, so easy to see with all the lights in London extinguished. Alfred licked his dry lips.   
  
He was a question to the world, and had no idea how to answer. It seemed he was always looking for a landing place—perhaps they were all looking for a place to land. The night breeze wafted through his hair and Alfred sighed, closing his eyes, letting himself absorb into everything England was giving him—a clear, beautiful sky, a peaceful night, a soft, comforting wind. His heart shivered and he sank down to his knees, hands pressed to the roof of the embassy.   
  
“What do I do?” he whispered, opening his eyes, still staring up at the stars that twinkled back at him.   
  
A landing place. All he wanted was a place to land, a place to belong, a place where it wouldn’t matter if he changed or stayed the same—  
  
No one knew him.  
  
“I want to go home,” he said—home, his landing place. Surely that was the only place he could fly to, come back to, long for. His first and only priority was his people.   
  
Being here was too painful. It surfaced memories he’d rather forget, made him think and feel things he wanted to forget. Made him hope for something different—  
  
The reception Winant received from the governmental officials, from the people, from the press—perhaps they were different from when Alfred had come here years ago, but the sentiment was still the same. They were separated by an ocean, they were bitter and angry and hated each other. Alfred thrived on the belief that they were the same in that respect—that his feelings for England were mutual. Hatred, indifference, dismissal.   
  
“He doesn’t want to see me, either,” Alfred whispered. England hadn’t even looked at him the day he’d arrived, hadn’t asked after him or approached him. “He wants something from me, but he won’t even speak to me.”  
  
This was the way it should stay—with neither looking at one another, both orbiting the other in silence. If England so desperately needed his help, he should come to Alfred himself.   
  
The stars shifted across the sky as the hours progressed. Alfred stayed on the roof, lying on his back, and telling himself all the reasons why he hated England.   
  
It wouldn’t stop ringing in his ears. And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to believe it was true or not—wasn’t sure if he knew that everything he was telling himself was true.  
  
 _England is gone. It’s only a matter of time…_  
  
In a moment, everything could be gone. In a moment, the sky could open up and he could be bombed again and again. In a moment, England could truly be gone.  
  
Alfred’s entire body shook—it was cold, he told himself, it was getting so cold—and in an instant his bravado evaporated. He felt it shatter, felt it fall away like shards of shrapnel, like columns of buildings falling to the ground—  
  
He curled into himself, unsure what to do, and even worse—unsure what to think.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“You’ve been here for two weeks now,” Winant said, pulling the blanket off from Alfred’s prone body. Alfred curled into himself, stuffing his head under the pillow. “You haven’t met with anyone, but that changes today. You’re coming with me to the luncheon.”  
  
“… ‘Dun wanna,” Alfred mumbled under the pillow and recognized that he was being petulant, felt very much like a child being scolded by a parent (and god, how he hated that), but doing nothing to remedy the situation. He groped around blindly for his blanket, but the ambassador held it tightly in his hands and Alfred eventually gave up with a sigh, peeking out from under the pillow.   
  
The ambassador was dressed for the luncheon, suit pressed and hair flat. He frowned down at Alfred, and it was clear that he had something he wanted to say but wouldn’t. Alfred was okay with this, and rolled away onto his side, blowing a puff of air up through his bangs so they fluttered against his forehead.   
  
“Will England be there?” Alfred asked, staring at the wall.  
  
“With the prime minister, yes,” Winant said. “You don’t have to speak with them if you don’t wish to—”  
  
“I don’t want to talk to them,” Alfred interrupted.  
  
“—But I’d still like for you to come, my country.”   
  
Alfred sighed and rolled onto his back, pursing his lips and almost pouting. Then he sat up, tugging on the sleeves of his pajama top. “Fine,” he finally relented, “But I’m not going to like it one bit.”  
  
Mollified, the ambassador left the young country to prepare for the luncheon. Cursing under his breath, Alfred rolled out of bed and threw the discarded blanket back onto the mattress. The last few weeks had been boring—two weeks, and nothing to do. At least he wasn’t getting bombed, he supposed. But he didn’t want to talk with the locals, didn’t want to talk with the governmental officials—it meant that all he had for company was Winant and the others at the embassy, but even they were there to work for Britain so it usually led to topics Alfred wished to avoid. Communication between Britain and the states was difficult, with the U-boats sinking merchant ships—letters took months to arrive, if they arrived at all. And wires from the president were few and far between. Alfred wasn’t concerned, but he wished he could get hold of his boss so he could try and sway him to let him come home. Being here was too painful, though Alfred would never admit to it—  
  
He wanted to go home. He was going to stay neutral, and nothing that the ambassador or England’s government did would convince him otherwise.   
  
He dressed, adjusting his tie with an irritable sigh before exiting his bedroom. Winant was sitting at Alfred’s table, reading the newspaper, and looked up when Alfred emerged. With a smile, Winant ushered Alfred to the door and together they traveled to London’s Savoy Hotel, for the luncheon. The Pilgrim Society, a group created for the one purpose of creating stronger Anglo-American ties, was holding the luncheon in Winant’s honor. Alfred found it laughable, but did not voice the opinion—there was no way that the two of them could ever have closer ties again, not after his revolution. The revolution had changed everything—Alfred hated England, and he knew that the feeling had to be mutual. Otherwise, wouldn’t England have sought him out two weeks ago, when he’d first arrived here? And their history after the revolution—they never met again until the Great War, and even then it was as tentative allies. The wars, the treaties, the negotiations—England never came to any of them.   
  
Alfred walked behind Winant as they entered the hotel, following the line of guests, the front of the line led by the Prime Minister Winston Churchill himself. Winant moved slowly, his head bowed slightly in reverence for those present, threading his way through the packed ballroom. They moved towards the head table, where Churchill was seating himself and the Earl of Derby had already seated. Alfred’s eyes scanned the crowd—and there he was, at the end of the table, as far away from Alfred as could be possible. England.   
  
Alfred nearly froze, nearly tripped over his own feet—that same jolt he’d felt before, at Winant’s press conference two weeks ago, returned to him. He had to jerk his face away, couldn’t look England in the eye. England still wasn’t even looking at him, anyway. His eyes were on his prime minister, hands folded on the table before him, back straight, face tired, gaunt, and haunted. Just when Alfred though maybe he could forget the look in England’s eyes, he saw that look again.   
  
He absolutely refused to think that England was falling apart.   
  
He refused to believe that. There was no way that the great British Empire could actually run out of funds, be unable to create a military power strong enough to hold onto a tiny, insignificant island. And yet, they still demanded all this aid. They had lend-lease, they had the old US destroyers from the Great War—what more could they need?   
  
Alfred seated himself at the back of the room—he couldn’t and wouldn’t sit at the head table with Winant. He lingered in the back of the room, moody. It wasn’t that he was so cruel that he didn’t want to help at all—but he didn’t want to be part of another European war. He wanted to protect his people, let them be unharmed at home. He couldn’t justify sending his boys into war, and the president shared that belief. He would remain neutral, and do what he could within that boundary. That was all they could expect of him.  
  
He ate his food in silence, rarely looking up from his plate. There would only be a few people here who would know who he was—for the others, he would simply be a morose, rude boy from the states. And he was fine with them thinking that—a stupid Yank, that’s all he was to anyone.   
  
The luncheon was nearing its end when Alfred finally looked up from his plate, only because he loud scraping of a chair made him think that _finally_ the torture was over and he could go back to his apartment (not _home_ ). But it was Churchill, rising to his feet and turning towards the ambassador.   
  
There was no doubt in Alfred’s mind, nor anyone else’s, that the prime minister intended to make Winant his ally, to woo him and attempt to woo the United States in turn. Alfred felt his face coloring.   
  
“Mister Winant,” Churchill rumbled, his voice booming and his words carrying throughout the ballroom and, undoubtedly, through the radio waves of the BBC. “You come to us at a grand turning point in the world’s history. We rejoice to have you with us in these days of storm and trial because, in you, we have a friend and a faithful comrade—”  
  
The prime minister continued to speak but Alfred had to look away, forcing himself not to cringe. He felt his body shivering, and for half a moment, Alfred wanted to look over to England, and resisted. He didn’t want to know how England thought about this—didn’t want to see the thoughts and feelings of England’s people reflected in his haunted eyes, see that glimmer of hope that Alfred would not be able to return. Or, worse, did not want to see the underlying scorn, the underlying condescension, the underlying bitterness as he begged for help. Alfred wanted nothing to do with the great British Empire. He wanted, and would always want, to go back home and return to himself.   
  
He desperately needed a cigarette.   
  
Churchill was nearing the end of his speech, and the man declared, voice loud and recapturing Alfred’s attentions: “You, Mister Ambassador, share our purpose. You’ll share our dangers. You’ll share our interests. You shall share our secrets. And the day will come when the British Empire and the United States will share together,” and here he paused, sweeping his eyes around the room, capturing Alfred’s eyes, before returning his attention back to the ambassador, “the crown of victory!”  
  
The audience erupted into cheers and Alfred felt the cold dread sink into his bones, freezing him to the spot. Slowly, so slowly, he dared to glance away from the prime minister, down the length of the table, try to see England’s expression. England was staring up at his prime minister, hands still folded, expression a perfect stony slate. There had once been a time that Alfred might have been able to read England’s expressions, to understand him—but that time would never return. Alfred distantly wondered if the country even knew that Alfred was there—he hadn’t looked at him once. It was as if he was pretending he did not exist.   
  
And now it was Winant’s time to respond to the prime minister. He saw Winant’s throat tighten and his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, and then slowly rose to his feet, tightly clutching the pages of his speech. He looked out over the audience, moving his weight from foot to foot, rather like a small boy saying a piece at his first party. Alfred wished he could touch the man’s shoulder, give him some kind of support—his ambassador, to the core of it, was incredibly shy and did not do well with public speaking. Sometimes he would pause for a full minute trying to think of his words, and for many people, listening to him at first was extraordinarily difficult and painful. But Alfred knew that he would pick it up, that because this was something he was passionate about, he would be able to succeed—  
  
There was a long pause. Then, quietly, hesitantly, Winant began to speak. Unlike Churchill, he was not a good speaker. He read and not too well, every word, looking down at his shaking pieces of paper. But his words were more than oratory—they were a declaration of faith.  
  
“America,” Winant said and Alfred snapped his head up for a moment, feeling his back stiffen, until he realized the man was not addressing him, “has finally shaken off its lethargy and gone into action. With its labor and resources, it will provide the tools—the ships, the planes, the guns, the ammunition, and the food—for all those here and everywhere who defend with their lives freedom’s frontiers.”   
  
Alfred shifted uneasily, sitting in that ballroom, Winant speaking about him, of him—pledging his support and allegiance to Britain, even though Alfred had made it clear from the beginning that he would have to remain neutral. He’d already done so much—he’d bent his laws for England, and that was all he could stand to do.   
  
“I am not here,” Winant said, “to praise my own country for its laggard help.”  
  
Alfred colored in shame.  
  
“I am here to pay tribute to the resoluteness and courage of Britain and its citizens,” he said, and glanced up very briefly from his script to nod to Churchill, and, behind him, England, watching Winant with an expression Alfred would never be able to place. Winant continued, “Today, it is the honor and destiny of the British people to man the bridgehead of humanity’s hopes. It is your privilege to stand against ruthless and powerful dictators who would destroy the lessons of two thousand years of history. It is your destiny to say to them: ‘Here you shall not pass.’”   
  
Winant cleared his throat a few times, seeing to be picking up momentum. His pauses were not as long, not as excruciating. Though he was not a good orator, his words struck at his audience. Alfred watched the change go through them—the start, with them cringing and looking uncomfortable, and now with them leaning forward, all their eyes on Winant.   
  
But here, Winant paused, his eyes sweeping the room. He looked straight at Alfred, and Alfred could not look away, his eyes wide as Winant, his voice growing stronger, his back straighter, never took his eyes from Alfred as he declared: “The lost years are gone. The road ahead is hard. A new spirit is abroad. Free people are again cooperating to win a free world, and no tyranny can frustrate their hopes.” He paused, just briefly, and continued, “The allies, with the help of God, shall build a citadel of freedom so strong that force may never again seek its destruction.”  
  
Goosebumps sprang along Alfred’s skin and his mouth fell open, as if to shout out to Winant. But soon all his thoughts were drowned out as the entire audience rose to their feet, a standing ovation for a man who, shyly, gave the others a small, lopsided smile. The cheering and clapping did not dissipate and only continued. Alfred stood, too, clapping and smiling up at his ambassador, though he could feel his entire body shaking—  
  
 _The lost years are gone._   
  
Alfred swallowed around the thick knot in his throat and looked away towards England. England stood, clapping, his expression almost gentle as he gazed up at the ambassador.   
  
_I want to talk to him._  
  
The thought struck him like a bomb to the gut and he almost staggered backwards. He swayed slightly, still shaking. He did not sit down until his hands began to hum from the force of his claps. He sat alone at his table, swallowing thickly, processing this thought—  
  
 _I want to talk with him._   
  
His eyes stayed on England. His mouth felt far too dry, there were words rotting away on the inside of him, things he would never be able to say or want to say or could possibly say. He had to look away from England, but soon enough his eyes returned to him, as if caught in his gravity, caught in his orbit.   
  
_England…_   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Who exactly did you write that speech for?” Alfred asked as they made it back to the embassy.   
  
Winant gave him a little smile. “For the people who need to hear it most. Goodnight, Alfred.”   
  
“… Goodnight,” Alfred murmured as the ambassador entered his apartment and closed the door behind him. Alfred sighed, and moved back towards his own apartment, his frown deeply etched on his face.   
  
He wouldn’t sleep at all that night. He could only think.  
  
  
  
  
  
 **Notes:**  
  
\- John Adams said of the British: “The only sure way of bringing about a healthy relationship between the two countries is for Englishmen to clear their minds of the notion that we are always to be treated as a kind of inferior and deported Englishman.” Anti-American sentiment ran rampant in England immediately following the revolution, and anti-British sentiment flourished in the US from the revolution well up to WWII. Mutual hatred, how wonderful.   
  
\- In direct contrast to how the Adams were treated, by 1941, Gil Winant was no longer in a position of scorned paravenu, but rather was a crucial figurehead to ensure the continued existence of England as a free country. Winant, therefore, was not only welcomed but actively “wooed” by the king (featured last chapter), governmental leaders (especially [Winston Churchill](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winston_Churchill)), and the press (also featured last chapter and alluded to here).   
  
\- The dinner at the Churchills, which Alfred does not attend, was a crucial time for Winant. Up until that point, he had no idea how Churchill would treat him. Churchill is notoriously known for his “bulldog-like belligerence”, but at the dinner he was in a rather conciliatory mood. Throughout the dinner, he and Winant discussed the latest problems between their country’s relations. They never became super close, however (as [William Averell Harriman](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._Averell_Harriman) will be the American to have the closest relationship to Churchill, and ultimately through that friendship, Churchill will start to shield Winant away from the ordeals and thoughts regarding the war and the country and rather seek advice from Harriman; it’s actually a bit of a myth, facilitated by Churchill’s own memories, that Churchill and Roosevelt were ever that close—their personalities and ideals clashed far too much, it was truly Harriman who had Churchill’s confidence).   
  
\- [Lend-Lease](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lend-Lease) began March 1941 after the United States reformatted its laws regarding helping countries in foreign wars.   
  
\- The destroyers-for-bases deal is only thinly alluded to here, but I’ll still put in a note about it. In England’s continuing quest to get US aid, the US agreed to sell to England destroyers from WWI, about six months prior to the timestamp of this chapter. Although the UK had received the destroyers, its government had not yet formally agreed to one provision of the quid pro quo—the lease of bases in British colonies in the Caribbean. Resentment of the deal in Whitehall, the House of Commons, and the colonies themselves had been too overwhelming. Additionally, when they received the destroyers from the US, they were worthless for their fight—old, outdated, and barely floatable.   
  
\- Luncheon actually happened! London’s Savoy Hotel. Winant followed Churchill and the Earl of Derby to the head table. The occasion was a gala luncheon in Winant’s honor, sponsored by the Pilgrim Society, an organization aimed at promoting closer Anglo-American relations. Seated before the ambassador, Churchill and Lord Derby, who was president of the group, was the elite of the British government and business worlds—virtually all the cabinet, as well as the country’s leading military figures, industrialist and news paper editors and publishers. Winant was, as mentioned multiple times before, a very popular guy, ha ha.   
  
\- Churchill and Winant’s speeches are both transcribed here word-for-word, as closely as I could manage to get in into the narrative. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred finally meets with England. This was probably not what Winant had planned, however.
> 
> Time stamp: March of 1941.

“I think,” the ambassador said, cautiously, the next day, “It might benefit you if you were to speak with Sir Kirkland.”  
  
Alfred nearly tripped over his own feet. He gawked at his ambassador. They were on their way to the embassy across the square and Alfred hadn’t expected the suggestion at all—after the night before, he’d assumed that Winant would just let him digest everything, think things over. Apparently not. It seemed that in this respect, the ambassador really would push it in the only way he knew how. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but—  
  
Alfred looked away, his face a bright red. He hated being treated like a child, and he knew that his ambassador never meant for it to be like that, but this entire trip was doing nothing but making him feel juvenile and uncertain. And the thing he hated most was uncertainty. He just wanted to go home. Home. Being here was too hard—and it’d be far worse if he were to go and see England. Worse, he didn’t have any idea what to expect with England.   
  
“I don’t think so,” Alfred said, but the hesitation was there before he could stop it. He hated the way his voice could waver so spectacularly.   
  
“Do you really hate him so much, Alfred?” Winant asked as he opened the door for the two of them. He stepped aside, holding the door open for Alfred. The nation walked through, keeping his eyes lowered, his face continuing to color in shame. The words did cause him pause, however. Especially when Winant added, “He’s the one you hate the most?”   
  
Alfred hesitated further, but walked inside. Winant followed after him, closing the door behind him. Alfred stared at his feet for a long moment, unsure what to say. Winant was patient, however. Of course he’d be patient—he understood what it felt like to search for words one cannot find.   
  
It wasn’t the matter of collecting the words, but rather organizing the thoughts. He’d wanted to speak with England last night, but the way the luncheon ended, it’d have been impossible. And Alfred didn’t want to see him in public, to have someone listen in on him. He didn’t want anyone else to see the way England would glare at him, the way England would treat him with the distant coldness he’d adopted ever since the Treaty of Ghent. But the thought of seeing England in private was also rather overwhelming—far too much. He couldn’t stand to think of any of that—the anger, the dismissal, the indifference, anything—when he was the only one to see it.   
  
And he didn’t know what to think anymore—neutrality, hatred, desire to help. It was true that the president had sworn all aid short of war, it was true that a good portion of his people wanted to help the United Kingdom. But there were many who didn’t want it, many who hated the British. It left him flipping back and forth, unsure. He told himself it couldn’t be helped—but he hated the way his thoughts constantly flopped in his pursuit for justification.   
  
“It’s not that I hate him,” he said at last, keeping his eyes pointedly away from Winant. The words stumbled out, so quickly he was surprised he’d been the one to say them. “Even though I do,” he added, giving the ambassador a sidelong look before flickering his eyes away. It wasn’t quick enough to avoid the look the ambassador was giving him. Alfred’s cheeks colored. He cleared his throat. “I just… he doesn’t want to see me either, ya know? I’ve been here for two weeks. It couldn’t have killed him to ask for me.”  
  
“He has,” Winant said, and Alfred froze in his steps. Winant continued walking, moved past Alfred so he was the one leading the way.  
  
Alfred’s throat was far too dry. Alfred stared after the ambassador, then remembered himself and padded after him. He nodded hello to the people they passed, and he tried to swallow the simple words the ambassador had told him. The ambassador offered no other words until they reached his desk. He set his briefcase down and sat, folding his hands together and looking up at his nation.  
  
Alfred stood in front of his desk, staring down at him. He opened his mouth, then closed it. HE cleared his throat, and asked, as casually as he could: “He asked for me?”  
  
“More that he asked after you,” Winant said, face deceptively neutral. Alfred felt a shiver run down his spine. “Making sure you’ve settled in alright and that you’re comfortable.” The ambassador set about nonchalantly opening his briefcase, pulling out some folders and collecting his words carefully, a long stretch of time passing before he finally said, “I told him you were well.”  
  
“Oh,” Alfred said, and looked away, his cheeks turning pink despite himself. “He’s…”  
  
“He was waiting for you,” Winant said, pulling some more folders from his briefcase now, getting ready for his work. “You should know, better than I, that the British are very proud, Alfred.”  
  
“… Yeah,” Alfred said quietly, “I know.”   
  
“I understand your history with him, Alfred.” He paused, and let out a small breath. “At least, as much as I can understand,” Winant said, and there was a long pause. Alfred knew to wait. Finally, the ambassador said, “I think it would benefit you, if you were to speak with him. Clear the air. He needs you.”  
  
“Even if he won’t admit it.”  
  
Winant’s lips twitched into an almost smile. “And… well.”  
  
Alfred looked at him, but Winant shook his head.  
  
“Do you truly not wish to see him?”  
  
“I—”   
  
“Answer me honestly,” Winant interrupted—a rarity for him. “If you want to spend your entire stay here in the embassy and not see him, I will understand. I won’t press you again, if the idea truly repulses you. Just be honest with me, my country.”  
  
Alfred looked down, feeling his entire face turning red—though he wasn’t sure why. He shuffled his feet against the floor, toeing at the carpet absently. His thoughts whirled a mile a minute—his people were torn, back home, and so was he. He didn’t know what to think, do, say—he couldn’t wrap his head around it, and frankly, he didn’t want to decide how he felt. Having a solid belief would be too encompassing, it would bury him beneath everything else.   
  
“I don’t like him,” he said at last. “But I guess I can go talk to him.”  
  
Winant smiled, and stood. “I’m going to Whitehall this afternoon. Sir Kirkland should be there, with the prime minister.”  
  
Alfred nodded and turned away. Before he could make his escape, however, Winant stood, touched his shoulder. Alfred looked over at him.  
  
“I just wish you could see this country the way I do, Alfred,” Winant said softly, patted his shoulder, and then left him alone.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He was not supposed to be nervous. The fact that he was nervous was completely ridiculous. If he were to be literal, he could say that he’d seen England twice while being here. That was enough that he wouldn’t get that strange jolt when he saw him. And it’d just be a quick hello, goodbye, and then it’d be over with and Winant would stop haranguing Alfred about talking with England in the first place.   
  
He was definitely not shaking, or fidgeting, or shifting around nervously. And the reason Winant patted his shoulder as they approached Whitehall was just because he was a nice person, not because he was trying to comfort Alfred. Alfred didn’t _need_ comfort.   
  
His hands really needed to stop shaking now.  
  
“He’s upstairs, I would think,” Winant said, nodding towards the staircase once they’d entered the front hall. “Second door on the left.”   
  
Alfred swallowed, audibly, and hated himself for it. Stuffing his hands into his pockets to try and work up some feeling of nonchalance, he walked, step by step, up the stairs and towards the second landing. He swallowed again, glancing over his shoulder to see Winant had left. He could turn around now, and be done with it. He could return back to Grosvenor Square and pretend he’d never come here in the first place. But that was cowardly, and it was just _England_ , for fuck’s sake. There was nothing about him that could strike fear into his heart—perhaps normal humans feared the great British Empire, but Alfred had known England—known him as a caretaker, a guardian, a brother, a father… anything. As a child. Back when England had been _Arthur_ , and to England he’d been Alfred. “Arthur” had been kind, then, if not misguided and suppressive. At least he had smiled at Alfred, up until Alfred began to actually think for himself and push “England” away.   
  
He paused outside the door. Second door on the left.   
  
He frowned, and hated that he was sweating in about twenty different places and his heart was racing. For fuck’s sake. It was _England._ It was nothing. He’d seen him years ago during the Great War. He’d fought against him, he’d traded with him, and now he was giving him aid. They were not “strangers” but Alfred would not deign to call him a friend or an ally. Even if their countries knew each other—the man behind that door was someone he had not known for centuries, not truly.   
  
He shivered again, and crossed his arms. He decided quickly enough that it was too much of a defensive action, however, and dropped his hands back to his pockets. Nonchalance. This was nothing.   
  
“Okay,” he told himself very quietly, inhaled deeply, and opened the door.  
  
The man’s back was to him, but he recognized it as England right away. Hands folded behind his back, shoulders straight. The other country, the falling empire, was looking out the window. It was a cold day in March, but it hadn’t rained for a few days now. It’d even threatened sunshine a few times. Alfred closed the door behind him, making sure to make noise so that England knew he was there. He didn’t say anything in greeting, tried to still his racing heart. England didn’t offer any immediate reaction—he didn’t even flinch at the sudden sound of the door.  
  
And then—  
  
The man turned towards him. Backlit by the dim light outside, he looked even paler, and up close—closer than he’d been to him in years—he could see how thin he’d gotten. He turned full towards him now, arms still behind his back, lips pressed into a thin line. There was no jolt in Alfred’s gut this time, for which Alfred was thankful, but he couldn’t take his eyes off his old caregiver, couldn’t look away from all the ways that England seemed weaker, from all the ways in which he was still just as strong.  
  
“America,” England greeted, watching him like a hawk does a prey it does not deem edible.   
  
There was no reason one word should be so halting. Alfred refused to shudder, refused to back down. He tried to think of a proper greeting, something that would not betray his nervousness, something that would mean he refused, absolutely, to back down to England.   
  
“Hey old man, long time no see,” Alfred said, squashed down any nervousness that was (not) there, and grinned. “You look awful.”  
  
England apparently did not find this amusing, as the look he gave Alfred could have frozen fire.   
  
The words he’d kept squashed down inside continued to rot inside him, and he could do nothing about it. He just kept grinning, kept telling himself he didn’t care, that he didn’t _care._  
  
 _England is gone._  
  
England was standing there, right in front of him—paler, smaller—  
  
Had he always been that small?  
  
England was standing there, right in front of him—strong, capable—  
  
England wasn’t shaking. England just stared at Alfred, and the younger nation shifted, just slightly, under the consistent gaze of an empire. He felt as if he were squirming, pinned to a wall. _Turn away, leave—leave, go home._ He wanted to. He ignored his thoughts. _Descend, fly—fly!_  
  
Finally, finally, England’s gaze shifted away and he turned back towards the desk he’d been working on long before Alfred had come to the room. He shifted through papers.   
  
_Well,_ Alfred thought, _this isn’t too bad. Horribly awkward—but…_  
  
“Was there something you needed?” England muttered to the files on his desk. He held a piece of paper in his hand, and it shivered in his hold, quaking. England set it down.   
  
“I think,” Alfred began, inhaled sharply. He had to suppress this uneasy he felt. He did it the only way he knew how: “It’s been well established you’re the one who needs something.”   
  
He saw England’s hand twitch before he fisted it in some scrap paper and tossed it in a wastebasket. He did not look up at Alfred again, and Alfred was fine with that—so long as he could avoid those eyes. He traced the slope of England’s shoulders, saw the fatigue and sleepless nights splayed across tensed muscles. The room suddenly seemed so very cold. Alfred felt as if he was falling, slipping away. He knew what he needed, knew what England needed and refused to say—and he felt as if he was falling.  
  
 _It’s only a matter of time before England falls._  
  
Alfred stepped forward, approaching the desk. “Whatcha working on?”   
  
England stayed silent for a long moment, and then said, quietly, “Rations.”   
  
“Huh,” Alfred said, “makes sense. Guess you’ve been losing a lot of supplies to the U-boats.”  
  
“To put it lightly,” England said, and straightened.   
  
Alfred refused to look away, as that was too much of a sign of submission, but God, did he hate to look into those eyes. Birds sang outside, the distant call of a swan’s song.   
  
“So,” Alfred said, fiddling with the pens on the table before letting them drop and wandering around the library he’d entered into. He recognized some of the titles on the shelves, while others were too faded for Alfred to quite make out. He worried his bottom lip, wandering around, all for something to do that didn’t involve looking at England. “What’d you want to see me for?”  
  
“You were the one who wanted to see me,” England protested, his face and voice eerily calm.  
  
“No way,” Alfred said, and puffed up his chest. “Winant had to practically beg me to get to see you—even told me you’d been asking after me.”   
  
He glanced over at England to see that the other nation’d colored considerably and whipped his head around to stare out the window again. Alfred let his grin slip, just slightly, and stood next to the mounted globe of the world. He twirled it around idly, and it spun. He watched it, ignoring the way his heart panged whenever he saw North America revolve around the upper hemisphere.   
  
“I did no such thing,” England said.   
  
“Told me you’d asked how I was settling here.”  
  
“I did no such thing,” England said again, tensely.  
  
“And I told him that I would much rather be at home,” Alfred told England’s back, fingers pressing on the globe to stop its rotation, fingers curling along the familiar shorelines of his home.   
  
“That’s to be expected,” England said, and Alfred was momentarily surprised that England hadn’t jumped down his throat at it—he’d been so on edge during the last war. “You’ll always crave for your home, no matter how long you’re away for or how far you are.”   
  
“Yeah,” Alfred said, quietly, a little taken aback from the reasonableness of such a statement. Perhaps he’d half-expected England to try to convince him how great it must be for Alfred to be here. Perhaps he’d known just as well as Alfred that saying such a thing would be a lie.   
  
He watched England lift his hands, trace it down the window pane as he gazed outside. If Alfred tilted his head just right, he could make out the reflection of England’s face on the window glass. He looked sad, far away—haunted. Those damned eyes. Alfred looked away.  
  
An incredibly uncomfortable silence, Alfred thought, passed. He tried to spin the globe again, but he couldn’t stand to look at North America spin by his field of vision. He walked away, looking over towards England’s back. England did not move as Alfred roved around the room, orbited around England, revolved his way around the room.   
  
Abruptly, England spoke, still gazing out the window—at his bombed city: “It certainly doesn’t help, the difference between our countries.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“You are not bombed,” England said, eyes on the window—looking so far away.  
  
“Well…” Alfred began, but trailed off because he had no idea what he was going to say.   
  
“That you have to be here after so long… at a time like this. There’s nothing that can be done about it, this way, but… My country is much better, when it and my people are at their best. Undoubtedly it does not meet your standards.”  
  
The last bit was said in an almost-sneer. Alfred balked and stared at the bookshelves for a long moment—  
  
 _Sirens. Bombs. Screams. Shrapnel.  
  
England is gone._  
  
Alfred shook his head.   
  
“It’s not that bad, I guess,” Alfred said, cautiously, not admitting to anything right away, in case England took that as a sign that Alfred was weakening and he’d send more aid or join the war. The last thing he needed was for England to get his hopes up and then start yelling at him when Alfred explained the situation. He would not go to war. “I can kinda tell what it would have looked like before you got bombed. I guess it would have looked better before it got all messed up. Kinda sucks I only see it like _this._ Everything’s all boarded up and grey and kinda depressing.”   
  
He watched England’s back stiffen. “Yes, being bombed for nine months can do that to a city—I am _so_ sorry for you that your experience would be ruined because of it.”   
  
Alfred stared at England’s back, and realized with a flush of shame that he had insulted England. But he would not apologize. Alfred bit his lip and glared at England’s back, wanting to leave—  
  
Why couldn’t he just go home?  
  
 _It’s only a matter of time—_  
  
“Hey, at least this way—I’ll appreciate what I have more,” Alfred said, and knew at once it was the wrong thing to say.  
  
He watched England tighten his hold on the windowsill before he slowly turned around, his eyes alit with fire. He looked as if he was trying to decide where to start with the shouting, so Alfred just grinned at him, approached his desk to tap one of his pens against the wooden surface. He hummed slightly, waiting for England to explode. But he did not. The man kept his cool.  
  
He did seem too tired to fight, maybe. Maybe Alfred would get away lucky.   
  
“Is that why you’re here?”  
  
“In England, you mean?” Alfred asked, and shrugged. “Dunno why I’m here. Ambassador’d wanted me to come, and the boss told me I should. So here I am. I’ll probably get to go back soon, though, I hope.”  
  
“… Of course,” England said, straightening, tucking his arms behind his back again. “I’d been under the impression that you were here to assess the situation and prepare for war.”  
  
Alfred nearly groaned, and quickly shook his head. “I’m afraid not, England.”   
  
“You can’t be serious,” England said, a soft sigh—exhausted, fatigued, tired. So tired.   
  
Alfred shrugged again.   
  
He realized, dimly, that England actually was shaking. Alfred watched as England shifted forward, pressing his hands down to the desk so he could lean forward, his eyes staring straight at Alfred. Alfred got that same feeling of being a pinned insect to a wall, and could not look away.   
  
“If this goes on, America, it will be the end of me.”  
  
Alfred’s heart flopped down into his stomach, and rotted away with all the words he never said. “I—”  
  
“I’ll _die._ Britain will be no more and—” He cut himself off abruptly, looking away. Alfred watched England bite his lower lip, stare off into the distance (the wall) as if there was actually something there. He did not say anything for a long moment.  
  
Then he straightened, adjusting his tie with knotted, bandaged fingers and smoothing his shaking hands over his chest, fixing any wrinkles in his suit. The movement was useless, however—England’s suit was a complete mess. It was old, tattered, falling apart. Even Alfred could work out all the places where England had tirelessly stitched the holes back together, could see all the places patched and alerted. He looked as if he hadn’t seen proper clothing in years—and he probably hadn’t. The rationing wasn’t just for food, after all.   
  
“And,” England began again, voice quieter, but somewhat more desperate: “For the love of _God_ I’m sure the idea of my dying is more than wonderful for you but I…” He hesitated, let his eyes flicker up to Alfred—and this is what he’d been so afraid of, all along—“I do not _beg_ , America, but if my people are not helped soon, they will all die. It will be the end of me.”   
  
Alfred stared at him—hated that he was here. He wanted to go home. He didn’t want to face this—didn’t want to face England’s starvation, his destruction, the way he was falling, falling, falling. He hadn’t expected for England to admit it. Wasn’t he meant to be so proud he would hold firm until the very end? Hadn’t that always been his way?   
  
Why was he staring at him now, with that expression on his face? The entire world was falling apart around him, and he only had his eyes on Alfred.  
  
“I’m…” Alfred began, swallowed. His entire body felt far too cold, and he wanted, more than anything, to not be there. Listening to Winant had been a mistake. He should never have come here. He should never have come to this god forsaken country in the first place. “I…” he said, his voice dropping a pitch, “I’m sorry, England. I’m neutral.”  
  
England’s eyes flared up at once and for a brief moment Alfred feared that the man would begin to cry. But it seemed he had no tears to shed since he merely turned his face away a moment, his lips thinned into a tight line, wobbling only once until he inhaled sharply and maintained his control. Alfred almost breathed a sigh of relief—if England had begun to cry, he wouldn’t have—  
  
“Of course,” England said, his voice poison and bitterness, a brew of hemlock. “How foolish of me to believe otherwise.”   
  
They fell into an uneasy silence. Alfred wanted to leave, go back, go home. Home. Fly away. He could find no landing place here, could find no place to belong. There were too many sounds, and he refused to lie about or lie in that sound, to understand it all—  
  
He was tired, too. He wanted to go home. He couldn’t face England’s expressions—there was no way to know what was worse: England’s pride, or England’s desperation.   
  
But England was staring at him again.   
  
Alfred looked back at him, as evenly as he could muster.   
  
“Neutral or no,” England said, voice quiet, “For the love of God, America, don’t make the same mistakes I did.”  
  
Alfred hadn’t expected those words. He’d expected another plea, not a warning—  
  
And then suddenly, for the first time in years, England was touching him. It was not gentle, it was not friendly—he grabbed Alfred by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him down and across the desk so he was nearer to England. Alfred’s knee banged against the desk. He watched as England, glaring up at him with such ferocity that it arrested Alfred’s attention immediately, refused to relent his hold on Alfred’s lapels.   
  
“Don’t think that after I fall, Germany will stop there. Oh no, you think that you’ll be safe, when the entire world has fallen and you are the only one left? Alone?”   
  
“Are you… threatening me, England?” Alfred asked quietly, eyes widened.  
  
England shook his head, very slowly, eerily slow. And then shook Alfred by the lapels. Hair flopped in his face. “It’s not a threat if it’s a fact. Are you content to sit back and wait until the Nazis are crawling out of your harbors?”   
  
Alfred’s mouth went dry. “They won’t—”  
  
“They will,” England interrupted.   
  
“No invader can keep my land,” Alfred whispered, staring down at England, “You should know that as well as anyone. England.”  
  
England’s eyes widened, for just a moment, and he stepped back, pressing a hand to his face. He looked away, for half a moment, and in that instance Alfred regretted the jab, the sting. He pulled away from the desk, took steps backwards and adjusting his lapels. He shouldn’t have said that. It didn’t leave him feeling any better, and the look on England’s face was one that he did not want to remember.   
  
“Foolish boy,” was all England said. “Don’t be so stupid because of your pride.”  
  
“Like you?” Alfred asked, looking away. England’s words reminded him too much of the last broadcast from Murrow that Alfred had heard— _Perhaps you can relax as these people did after Munich… But consider what’s happened in the last two years and try to ignore what the next two years will bring—if you can._  
  
England didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he slowly moved away from Alfred. Alfred watched him move, stepping through the library as if he did not recognize the familiar paths. He looked up at the spines of books, endless. He stepped in front of the globe, ran his hand over it as Alfred had, only with his thumb tracing affectionately over the small markings of the British Isles. He stayed there, his head bowed slightly, as he let the globe turn, let his fingers trail along its surface as it revolved around its axis. His fingers traced over Britain every time it moved, slid over the top of the United States, curled along the lines of Asia and Europe.   
  
“I,” England began, eyes still on the globe, “am in many ways, just as foolish as you are.” The globe stopped moving, losing its momentum, and England’s fingers pressed against random points in the Atlantic Ocean. “I cannot blame you, for wanting to stay neutral. After all, my people and I—we had done our best to stay out of war. We stood quietly by as Germany rose to power and began its conquest of Europe. For the sake of peace… well… for the sake of Britain’s peace, we did very little, almost nothing, to prevent country after country from being swallowed up by Germany.” England lifted his hand, pushed the globe so it revolved yet again. He watched it as it moved through revolution after revolution, his eyes hooded. “Then, suddenly… shockingly so, though it was obvious it would happen that way—I was alone. I was facing Germany on my own… After nine months of standing alone against the mightiest military power in the world… I am exhausted. I am financially, emotionally, and physically exhausted. It’s a chore to wake up in the morning, to continue on. I am holding out hope—but hope is all I have, and that is dwindling as well.”   
  
He looked over at Alfred.  
  
Alfred wished he wouldn’t.  
  
“My future borders on the calamitous.” He looked away, then, as the globe fell still yet again. “My people—my Prime Minister… they hope that the United States will pay more attention to us than we paid to Europe.”   
  
Alfred looked down. His eyes were dull and distant for a moment before they came back, and he blinked.   
  
“My boss promised all aid short of war,” he said quietly. He meant it as some kind of penance—meant it for, perhaps, some kind of solace for England.   
  
England snorted, loudly, as if Alfred had told a particularly amusing joke. Alfred stood there, rooted to the spot, unable to move but wanting to—only able to watch as England shook his head, that familiar, angry spark returning to his eyes.   
  
“You _say_ that, but what have you actually given me?”  
  
“I’ve given you a lot!” Alfred said, shouted almost, much louder than he’d intended. “You’re the one who acts like it isn’t enough—you’re the one who demands so much and then you always want more!”   
  
“It’s not _enough!_ ” England snapped, his own voice raising in volume. He marched a few steps towards Alfred and then seemed to think better of it.   
  
“Fuck you,” Alfred shouted, and the words seemed to shake the very room.  
  
England’s eyes narrowed. “And what’s worse is that I must grovel to you. To _you._ ”  
  
Alfred’s back straightened, and he glared.  
  
England refused to look away, but he looked as if he wanted to. His entire body was tensed, ready to flee, to get away. Alfred wished he himself could get away.  
  
“And I should know at this point it will fall on deaf ears. Needing help from you—you don’t care. Why should you? Why should you when you seem content to milk me dry financially while I exhaust myself to dying embers?”   
  
“I don’t—” Alfred began, and swallowed his tongue. _I don’t care. Remember that._ He took a step towards England. “That’s your biggest grievance? That some supposedly all-powerful empire has to grovel to his former colony?”  
  
England stiffened up, tilting his chin up defiantly, and turned away with a scoff, storming towards the desk. He leaned over it, his back hunched, staring down at the papers there. Then he clenched his fists around more of the papers, bundled them up into balls, and threw them at Alfred’s head. Alfred ducked, though one did bounce harmlessly off his nose.   
  
“Fuck off!” the older nation shouted.  
  
“Admit it! Admit that you’re just too proud! You can’t stand that you need to ask _me_ for help after you were content to insult my every move, as if I was worthless. As if you hadn’t fought tooth and nail to keep me in your possession!”  
  
“You’re—” England began, his face twisted in anger.   
  
“You’re holding my revolution against me even now, aren’t you?”  
  
“I,” England shouted, throwing more balls paper at him, “am doing no such thing!” Still, he threw more. At this point he seemed to be crumbling up important documents, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “I have moved on, why can’t _you?_ ”  
  
“What? Me?” Alfred squawked in surprise as he knocked a sailing paper ball out of the air so it went charging back towards England. England caught it and simply threw it again. “I have moved on!”  
  
“Then why do _you_ continually hold it against _me_?” England hissed.  
  
“The way you look at me—it’s as if you still want me to be your little brother, sometimes! Admit it, you hate having to beg to me because it’s _me_! _Especially_ because it’s me and because I don’t need you or want you, and now here you are, a sorry excuse for a country, having to ask for my help!”  
  
“And a fat lot your help has done!” England snapped.  
  
“I give you a lot of help!” Alfred protested.  
  
“There is _nothing_ that you have given me, America, that I haven’t had to pay for desperately. And none of those things for which I’ve paid have done me any good against Germany!”   
  
“As if you wouldn’t do the same thing! And you’re avoiding what I just said!” Alfred protested, picking up the scattered paper balls and throwing them with unnecessary force at England’s head. England ducked easily and threw them back just as viciously. “You still see me as your little brother—your possession! You look down on me! You don’t take me seriously and your people may need my help, but they _hate_ me. Don’t think I don’t see it!”  
  
“I haven’t seen you as my brother in years,” England shouted, and then threw the pens at him. His voice dropped in volume, but he looked ready to murder Alfred and throw him out the window. “The day I surrendered to you is the day I lost my brother. I don’t know you, America, and I don’t want to.”  
  
“And you wonder why I don’t want to join the war,” Alfred snapped, snatching up a pen that’d lodged itself in his hair.   
  
“I make no qualms about your country’s feeling towards me,” England said, plainly, his voice still thick with anger and betrayal. “I have no delusion over how you see me, America.”  
  
Alfred fell silent, clenching the pen between his fingers. His hand curled into a fist.   
  
“You think that my ambivalence about asking for your help—my… our lack of a proper understanding, is because I hold your independence against you?” England shook his head, and looked physically ill. “You’re a _fool._ Here I stand, on the eve of what could be my last days—I could lose my island tomorrow, the next day, next month! I am on the verge of losing my people, my sovereignty, my _home_ , and you think I can resent you for wanting your freedom and independence? Don’t insult me in such a way,” England snapped, and then wrenched the pen away from Alfred’s hand before Alfred’s strength snapped it in half. “I _love_ your freedom, America.”   
  
Alfred stared at him, his eyes wide. The last words rattled in the still room, and Alfred felt his breath physically leave him.   
  
But England didn’t see it, turning away from him and steadying his desk. He stooped, picking up the discarded fallen papers, smoothing them out as best he could, staring down at the words almost lovingly, before he recognized that the papers were for rations for his own people, already starving, already begging, already desperately waiting for some kind of relief. He scowled.   
  
“I am dying,” England said firmly. “I have no delusions about my situation. I will stand for as long as I can. Germany may have the upper hand, but I will be damned if I roll over willingly to die. He will have to work, to take my island away from me.”   
  
He stayed silent, then, for a long moment. Alfred almost took the opportunity to leave, felt too exposed here—too emotional. His body was shaking—why was it shaking?   
  
“But make no mistake,” England said quietly. “I do not ask for help lightly— _regardless_ from whom I am asking help.” He looked up at Alfred, sharply. “The past is the past and it cannot be undone. My—my personal feelings aside, I have had time to think about what’s happened in the past. You were a part of my empire. You gave me many things, America. But I, too, was once part of someone’s empire, and I, too, fought for my right to keep what was mine. As I am fighting now, once again. You made your opinions of me loud and clear, back then—and your intentions to no longer know me, to hate me. I have accepted that. And I have moved _on._ ”   
  
Alfred’s frown deepened.   
  
England straightened out his suit again, dusty and shredded. He looked awful, looked an awful mess.   
  
“Continuing to bring it up, after we both should have moved on, is an insult to my character and to your own country’s history.”   
  
“Stop turning this around on me,” Alfred shouted. “Moved on? Bullshit! That’s _bullshit_ , England! Everything you do is bullshit!”   
  
“And now you’re here, insulting me.”  
  
“I had no desire to be here in the first place!”  
  
“Then _why_ are you here?” England shouted.  
  
“I—” Alfred faltered.  
  
“ _Why_ ,” England gritted through clenched teeth, “are you here? If you hate me, if you hate this place, if you’d rather be home and have no intention to help me, to let me fall, then why are you here, America? Go home.”  
  
“I—”  
  
“Go home.”  
  
“Don’t order me around,” Alfred snapped, and almost swept everything off England’s desk in his rage. Instead he whipped around and stomped to the globe, pushing it forcefully so it revolved faster than it had before, whirling around with no sign of stopping right away. “Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do! Don’t stand there and act as if I haven’t lifted a finger to help you when that’s not the case! Don’t stand there and act as if you’ve gotten nothing when I’ve given you all I can as best I can! And don’t—don’t act as if the past doesn’t matter to you, because I know it does!”   
  
“You are not my brother,” England muttered. He seemed to be curling into himself. “I haven’t seen you as my brother in years—you are _nothing_ but a nuisance. Nothing but an arrogant, foolish young boy.”  
  
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Alfred shouted, felt the ridiculous urge to cry and hated it was there—why should he care? _I don’t care!_   
  
“Whatever happened to ‘if England is to survive, we must act’?”  
  
“Don’t throw my boss’ words back at me like that—!”  
  
“You can stand there and say you give me aid—but all you’re doing is taking advantage of my people and myself.”  
  
“I didn’t—!”  
  
“You gave me destroyers from the Great War on the condition that I give you ninety-nine years of use on over eleven military bases—and once I receive these destroyers, what are they but desolate, worthless scrap metal! You call that charity? You call that all aid short of war, America?”   
  
“I—!”  
  
“You made me borrow money from Belgium because you refused to believe I could be running out of money.”  
  
“You can’t possibly be running out of money! You’re the _British Empire_ —aren’t you supposed to be limitless in your power? If you need more cash, you could just liquidate some of your investments in the Americas.”  
  
“Fuck you.”   
  
“Isn’t that what it always is? You beg me for help, and then when I give it to you it isn’t good enough! None of you take me seriously—all of you see me as nothing more than a child—!”  
  
“You have done nothing for us to see you as anything but!” England snapped back. “I don’t know what your intentions are, America, but know that while you milk me for your own benefit and economic advantage, I am _fighting for my very life._ ”   
  
Alfred shook his head from side to side, felt the rage bubbling inside him. The urge to punch something, to throw something—anything—was rising. Why had he come here? Why couldn’t he leave? Why was he _here_?   
  
“I changed my laws for you! What more can you want? This isn’t my war, England—!”   
  
“It’s _everyone’s_ war!”   
  
Alfred hoped that the rest of the people in Whitehall couldn’t hear them—feared that someone would come and disturb them. His heart thundered in his chest. All he wanted was to leave, but he refused to back down from England—not when it was like this.   
  
“You did send me help, I will give you that. But… The help you sent was invariably too little and too late. And it always came with a cat’s cradle of strings attached.”  
  
“How can I—”  
  
“… Of course,” England interrupted, and suddenly looked far too tired. “I’ve had many allies in my long history. I’ve used my allies to further my own gains and interests, in the past. I suppose this is just turnabout as fair play—a proud, imperial power such as I, forced to beg you—and I do not have this trepidation because of any _past_ relationships we may have had—”  
  
Here, his voice dropped far too quietly, and he did look unhappy. It soon disappeared when he began speaking again, his voice tight and his face twisted in a pained reluctance to admit his own weakness.   
  
“—but rather because of your arrogance, your own determination to take economic advantage of my own misfortune. No matter what country it would be… it would be humiliating.”   
  
“England…” That saddened tone did not sit well for him, no matter how brief it may have been.   
  
“And still, you give no apologies for this—I don’t expect you to. Perhaps it really is an economically sound approach, even if it digs me my grave.”  
  
“Stop that,” Alfred said quietly. “There’s the Lend-Lease…”   
  
“Yes,” England said quietly, “At least there’s _something_ that keeps my people from eating their shoes.”   
  
“I didn’t…” Alfred trailed off, felt his chest constrict. It was hard to breathe.   
  
“But I need specific aid. And your… president… he seems unwilling to truly act, to sway or lead public opinion. I understand, America, that your people do not want to fight and that your congress especially does not want to fight—but I…” England paused, his voice shaking just slightly. He turned away, moved to the window, looking out and away. Alfred could see his expression, watch as his resolve, his brave, prideful front, was so quickly dissolving away—  
  
 _He’s trying to guilt me,_ a small voice said in the back of his mind. _He’s trying to trick me—like he did for the last war._   
  
That had to be what he was doing. There could be no other reason—  
  
He tried not to look at that face—didn’t want to believe it was true, didn’t want to believe it was just an act.   
  
“You cannot continue to act as you do—dipping in and out of European affairs at whim, wanting to lead but by a distant example—isolation can only last for so long.”  
  
“Well, ya know,” Alfred said, cautiously, “Most Americans still think of international diplomacy with all the disgust of a Victorian lady thinking ‘bout sex.”  
  
He almost laughed, but the joke didn’t seem to tickle England in any way. He made a face.  
  
“I’m being serious.”  
  
“I’m not ready to be in the world, England. Not the way you want me to be,” Alfred said.  
  
“You can’t be alone in this world. No one can be.”   
  
“My people don’t want to fight, England.”   
  
Alfred had to look away. He knew it was so—knew that England was dying. Anyone looking at him could see it was the case—all this time, Alfred had thought it was impossible—impossible for a stubborn, proud, and strong old man like England to actually be in danger of disappearing. To run out of money, to run out of food—But his people were starving, and Alfred could see that England was in turn. It wasn’t a lie. But there was nothing he could do, and a small part of him that tried to convince himself that England was only trying to manipulate him.   
  
He kept looking away, bit at his lip. He didn’t know what to do, he was torn, and he had to keep telling himself that he didn’t care—that it didn’t matter. As long as his people were safe, nothing else would matter.   
  
“I won’t be here long… just, long enough.” Alfred refused to look at England, though he heard him moving, heard him looking over his shoulder at Alfred. “The president told me to come over here and get a feel… and all that.”  
  
“Well,” England said, looking away again—and he was so far away now. “Take your look, then. I daresay you’ll see everything you’ve heard about and more, and return to your precious home thereafter.”   
  
“England…” Alfred began, bravado of earlier slipping away, the agitation, anger, abandonment—it all swirled inside him. And something clicked inside him. “I want to help,” he said, and knew it was the truth, knew it the instant the words left his lips—he couldn’t lie about that—he wanted to _help him_ : “I want to, but you know… I don’t want to b—”  
  
England stood, suddenly, collecting his documents sloppily into his shaking hands and, just as abruptly, walked away, walked right past him without looking at him. Alfred watched in petrified shock as England slammed the door open, his body passing through the doorway. He turned back towards Alfred, gripping the door handle—and allowed, for just one, hollow moment, to stare at Alfred in a look that Alfred never, for as long as he lived, wished to see. He could not describe it. He could not fathom it—could not suppress the way his entire body roiled from that singular look.  
  
And, with that, England slammed the door shut behind him and it was the clear indication that the conversation was over.   
  
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**  
  
\- [Whitehall](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whitehall) is a street in Westminster, and refers to the [Palace of Whitehall](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palace_of_Whitehall), gone now since 1698, and is the administrative centre of the Government of the United Kingdom, which grew up around the palace and remained there after the palace was torn down.  
  
\- “How the English hate being rescued by the Americans,” Canadian diplomat Charles Ritchie wrote in his diary. “They know they must swallow it, but, God, how it sticks in their throats.”   
  
\- Roosevelt was notoriously ambivalent towards the war, partly because of the anti-war, anti-British sentiments in the congress and partly from personal feelings and lack of understanding of European affairs. Yet it was hard to blame Roosevelt for his caution. After all, the British themselves had done their best to stay out of war in the 1930s, standing quietly by as Hitler rose to power and began his conquest of Europe. For the sake of peace—Britain’s peace—the Chamberlain government had done little or nothing in the late 1930s to prevent Germany’s expansion across Europe.   
  
\- Roosevelt promised all aid short of war, and, after Germany conquered France and launched the Battle of Britain, he declared: ‘if Britain is to survive, we must act.’ But, as the British saw it, America’s actions did not match it president’s words. Even Lend-Lease was privately believed by Churchill to be less than impressive, and too little.   
  
\- Churchill admanatly wanted Roosevelt to act instead of following public opinion. He believed that the president should sway and lead public opinion in order for England to survive. And although Lend-Lease was a huge step in the escalation of US involvement, the American envoys warned that it must not be viewed as the decisive one. Again and again, they sought to make clear to officials and the British public that strength of the US isolationist movement and the vagaries of American politics and government, particularly the system of separation of powers. Churchill, who had an American mother, liked to boast that he had a firm understanding of US political system. In fact, he and those in his government never fully grasped how very different it was from their own parliamentary system, where the executive and legislature were harnessed together and where party divisions were, for the most part, kept under control. Winant kept emphasizing that Roosevelt did not lead Congress the way Churchill led Parliament. According to the US constitution, it was up to congress, not the president, to declare war. And in the spring of 1941, American legislators, many of them isolations, were nowhere close to doing so.   
  
\- Example of this stupendous “all aid short of war”: in exchange for the fifty aging US destroyers that Churchill sought in the summer of 1940, the Roosevelt administration demanded that it be awarded ninety-nine-year leases for the use of military bases in Newfoundland, Bermuda, and six British possessions in the Caribbean. The deal was, as everyone knew, far more advantageous for the United States than for Britain, and it was deeply resented by the British government. Nonetheless, the British had little choice but to accept what they considered grossly unfair terms. The British felt even more aggrieved when the WWI-ear destroyers finally arrived. Dilapidated and obsolete, they could not be used without expensive alteration.  
  
\- As Britain’s situation grew ever more dire, the price of American aid grew ever more onerous. Since November 1939, when Roosevelt persuaded a reluctant Congress to amend the [Neutrality Act](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neutrality_Acts_of_1930s) banning US arms sales to countries at war, Britain had been permitted to purchase American weapons and equipment. But, according to the amendment’s terms, the material had to be paid for with dollars at the time of purchase, and buyers had to transport the supplies in their own ships. In the year that followed, heavy armament purchases had drained Britain of most of its dollar and gold reserves. To continue arms shipments, the British Treasury was forced to borrow from the gold reserves of the Belgian government-in-exile in London. So serious was the gold situation that the Chancellor of the Exchequer advised the cabinet to consider requisitioning from the British people their wedding rings and other gold jewelry. Churchill counseled delay. Such a radical idea, he said, should be adopted only “If we wished to make some striking gesture for the purpose of shaming the Americans.”  
  
\- The US government offered no apologies for the blatant milking of Britain for financial gain during its participation in the war. For the British to receive anything at all, Roosevelt and his men believed, the American people must be persuaded that their own country was getting the better end of the deal. He said: “We seek to avoid all risks, all danger, but we make certain to get the profit.” The administration felt obliged to assure the American public that the “scheming, tricky British” (reflected in Alfred’s belief England might be trying to manipulate him here) would not be allowed to lure the United States into another European war. The United States of America was, therefore, getting from England “far more than we deserved” and members of the administration and military were “happy rather than thoughtful” by this reality.   
  
\- _“But I, too, was once part of someone’s empire, and I, too, fought for my right to keep what was mine.”_ He’s referencing [the Roman conquest of Britannia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roman_conquest_of_Britain), though in its history, the British isles have been the sight of many invasions and conquests, failed or otherwise.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred continues to tell himself that he doesn't care. But some things make him finally look into his feelings on this.
> 
> Time stamp: March of 1941.

  
Alfred stayed in the room for a long time, after England stormed away. He spent the first few minutes standing there, staring off into space, eyes settled on the door—as if half-expecting England to return, or someone to come to figure out why doors were slamming. But no one came. He was alone. And it was better that way, he reminded himself. It was always better this way.   
  
The anger set in soon enough, though. He furrowed his brows and jerked his face away, cursing under his breath and stomping towards the window. He crossed his arms defensively over his chest, biting at his lower lip to keep from muttering out a string of curses. He looked out at the cold, dark day and hissed to himself, “I _hate_ this place.”  
  
He almost punched something, but knowing his strength, it would send walls toppling over. And things were already falling apart around here—there was no sense in Alfred toppling down more buildings when the Germans took quick care of _that._ So he restrained himself. Eventually, he grew tired—angered further—at the world outside, and turned away, back slumped, hands pressing down onto the desk. He clenched his eyes shut tight, feeling the pounding headache beginning to strum up a steady tempo against the inside of his skull. He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, but it did nothing to alleviate the annoyance. It felt as if he was on the verge of realizing something, and his thoughts were screaming at him to focus. But he ignored it. He had no desire to know these things. He kept his head bowed and his shoulders slumped, his eyes clenched tight until he grew curious and stared down at the papers on the desk. He smoothed his hands over a crumpled piece of paper England had thrown at him, doing his best to smooth it out again, flat. It was well beyond repair, he knew, but he tried it anyway. It was worth a try. Everything was worth a try, even when everything was falling apart around him. He tried to smooth out the paper, but instead ripped it down the middle. He recoiled.   
  
He paced around the room, after a moment, stooping to pick up the other balled up papers, tossing them onto the desk before continuing the task of smoothing them out. He moved slower this time, softer, trying to keep his touch light and restrained. He didn’t dare read what anything said, because it just made him sick to his stomach.   
  
He was distracted, though. He couldn’t focus on anything around him, and his hands were shaking just a little as he traced the book’s spines lining the walls of the room. His eyes scanned everywhere, searching for anything. Alfred’s eyes found the globe across the room, tilted on its axis, North America beckoning him. Home. His home.   
  
His hands almost fisted into the smoothed paper, but he resisted. Home. England had told him to just go home, had dismissed him so readily—as if he didn’t _need_ him.   
  
“He doesn’t want me,” he said quietly. He didn’t want him—he only needed him. “He can’t even call me by name.” Not that he could call him by name, either. “England.” He snorted softly. “Home… maybe I should just go home.”   
  
Alfred stuffed his hands into his pockets, because he couldn’t stand the idea that perhaps they were shaking.  
  
Alfred stood there for a long moment, his head bowed, lost in thought. His mind coiled and his thoughts stampeded, but he couldn’t focus on one thing or the other. So, with a heavy sigh, he stormed from the room, almost tumbled his way down the stairs, and left the building before anyone could stop him. He couldn’t stay. He shouldn’t stay.   
  
This was not, and never would be, his home.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Alfred suspected that Winant suspected _something._ Or at the very least the ambassador had heard how poorly the reunion between nations had gone—probably because of something like England saying nasty things about him to his governmental officials and they, in turn, telling Winant. Alfred couldn’t be sure, and Winant never pried into Alfred’s business. Sometimes Alfred was thankful for such things, even if he couldn’t stand the way he felt judged at times—as if the ambassador was doing his very best to be, well, diplomatic and not let on just how much Alfred disappointed him. Alfred had no idea why the idea of disappointing Winant was so distressing to him, but that was the reality. But Winant never inquired too hard, especially when he could tell that Alfred was upset. It meant their times together were a little tensed, though. Alfred didn’t respond to most of what the ambassador would say. He would spend his days sitting at the window, staring out at the landscape and imagining that he was home, that he wasn’t stuck in this ugly, desolate, dying nation.   
  
_It’s only a matter of time before England falls._   
  
He pressed his cheek against the window, frowning, his entire body fatigued. There was no _point_ in him being here. He should be able to go home. Alfred suspected that Winant was only keeping him around to use him, in the hopes that somehow having Alfred _here_ would somehow persuade the United States to be there as well.   
  
And with every passing day, he felt his body seep into the soil here, as if planting new roots. It was the way of nations—and with every passing day, Alfred longed to return home. Home, where the people weren’t starving, weren’t standing in lines for hours on end in the hopes of seeing a pack of cigarettes (and what Alfred wouldn’t do for a cigarette—he’d already used up all his own). Home, where the people weren’t bombed into oblivion, where they didn’t have to live in fear of clear nights, where they weren’t sure if their sons or brothers or lovers would come home alive or dead, and when that would be.   
  
He was torn. He was completely, and utterly torn.   
  
And he hated it. He tried to convince himself it wasn’t the case, that it was never the case—that he didn’t _care_ , that he never cared. If England couldn’t summon up the pride, or lack thereof, to beg him for help, and didn’t even _want_ him here (only needed), there was no reason for him to be there. He should be able to go home—even England had pushed him to do so, had insisted he leave if he hated being here so much. And, god, how he hated it. There was nothing here—he only wanted to close his eyes, curl into the corner, and sleep away the centuries.   
  
“Home,” he murmured to himself, and the rain battered cheerfully against the windowsill, as if mocking him. Home. It’d be better if he could go home, put this entire thing behind him, pretend that none of this had happened, this entire waste of time. He could just forget—  
  
 _I do not beg, America._   
  
Alfred shook his head. His face heated up and he pressed more insistently against the cold glass, warped from time, feeling the phantom of raindrops on his cheek, sliding down and cooling his skin.   
  
Home.   
  
Winant knocked at the door, and waited a few moments before he opened it, slowly. His eyes undoubtedly fell to Alfred at once and Alfred turned his face away from the darkening, rain-blotted sky. He stared at the ambassador, and after a moment reminded himself that it was important to smile. So he did.   
  
“Mail?” Alfred asked, and Winant shook his head. He carried papers with him, though—undoubtedly embassy work he’d taken home for the night. Alfred asked, “Wires?”  
  
Again, Winant shook his head. Alfred sighed, and turned his face away again, looking out the window. He was so far away from home, and the general disconnect didn’t help at all. The president rarely cabled or wrote. Barely anyone cabled or wrote him. And it was not as if there was anyone else back home he could write to—perhaps the First Lady, but she was the only one, and she had enough on her plate without sending well-wishes through an unreliable mail service.   
  
“Guess the merchant ships keep getting sunk,” Alfred muttered.   
  
“Yes,” Winant said, not looking up from his work—and somehow that single word held way too many emotions and feelings on the matter.   
  
Alfred ignored them. He couldn’t afford to feel any sympathy for England—he was just a stupid, stubborn old man. And he was trying to manipulate him. He couldn’t afford to be manipulated. And even if he was, it wasn’t as if it would matter—he may be the United States of America, but _he_ was not the one leading or controlling the congress. He was nothing but a pawn, torn between the two extremes—stay away from the war, and dive headfirst into the war. And no one cared to examine just how much power Alfred had—which was not much at all. And it was up to him to maintain the thoughts of his people.   
  
Alfred traced the raindrops on the windowsill, imagined what it’d be like to trace them back to the source—or to go to places with blue skies. No clouds, clear night skies that didn’t mean the threat of bombs, just counting stars and tracing constellations. He loved the stars. He missed the stars.   
  
The rain fell.   
  
He just wanted to go home.   
  
“Did _anything_ come for me?” Alfred said, and knew that he was possibly whining and couldn’t really summon the urge to care. He frowned to his reflection in the window. The world outside was darkening further, falling away from the twilight and sinking into the blackout. Winant lit a candle behind him.   
  
When Alfred turned to look at him, Winant nodded his head towards the pile of papers he’d left on the table. “There’s the newspaper, if you’d like that.”  
  
Alfred got up—he hadn’t read, or really done anything, in forever. He’d passed the last few days in a state of silent discontent, weighing his options and stewing in the reality of his situation. He scooped the newspaper up and retreated to a chair, sitting down and propping his feet up onto the seat, wrapping his arms around his knees and pulling the newspaper open to read. There were a few scattered stories mentioning Winant, but a lot more mentioning some kind of war-related story. This was to be expected, and Alfred sighed to himself. Of course the newspaper would talk about the war. He continued reading, in any case, for lack of anything better to do.   
  
And then he sputtered, loudly.   
  
The ambassador looked up from his work, alarmed by the sudden noise from his country. Alfred, blushing, cleared his throat and jumped up from the table.   
  
“They hate me!” he said, loudly, and hated how desperate that made him sound. His voice came out a little louder than he’d intended.   
  
The ambassador continued to look confused. Alfred continued to sputter.  
  
“They—I’m on par with _Italy._ Italy! Italy’s their _enemy!_ ” Alfred said, the volume of his voice raising progressively higher the more he spoke.   
  
The ambassador, probably unsure just what Alfred was going on about, stood up and approached, touching the country’s shoulder.   
  
“Alfred…” he began.   
  
Alfred shook the newspaper at Winant. “They hate me!”   
  
“Who?”   
  
“Them—the British! England! They hate me!” Alfred said, and knew he sounded hysterical and couldn’t quite summon the reasons to explain why he cared. He shoved the newspaper under Winant’s nose, but his hands were shaking so much that he doubted the ambassador would be able to read what he said. “T-there’s a poll! Asking the British which non-axis country they view the most favorably!”   
  
“And?” the ambassador asked, trying to read the article Alfred was gesturing to wildly.   
  
“I’m in last!” Alfred shouted, and then turned his face away quickly, jerking the newspaper back and almost cradling it against his chest, his brows furrowed. He stomped away, drifting absently towards the window again and staring out at it. He said, softer this time: “Their favorable opinion is about as favorable as their opinion of Italy. _Italy._ ”   
  
With a startled shout, Alfred crumbled up the newspaper and threw it into the rubbish bin. And for good measure he kicked the bin away, and it tumbled against the leg of Winant’s desk. Alfred shouted out again and turned his face away. He stood there, moody, staring out the window until his vision fell out of focus and he stared at his reflection on the window instead. He looked older than he remembered. Perhaps a little thinner, too.   
  
“Do you blame them for it?” the ambassador asked after a lengthy paused.  
  
“I—” Alfred began, and then stumbled over his thoughts, unable to complete the sentence.   
  
“Do you want them to adore you?” Winant asked after a long pause, his voice quiet and uncertain as he tried to collect his words fast enough to speak them. “Isn’t it much easier for you to ‘hate’ them if they hate you in turn?”   
  
Alfred stayed silent. He turned his face away completely and walked away. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and sighed, resting his forehead against the window’s glass. It was cool to the touch. He closed his eyes, frowning. He didn’t want to have a deep talk with Winant again, because he hated to be forced to view his own failings and contradictions. He hated to be forced to stare down the years, or stare down the realities that he was making great pains to avoid.  
  
So instead of answering, he asked, “Ambassador?”  
  
“Yes?” he heard him say.  
  
Alfred sighed. “Why am I really here?”  
  
“Because—”  
  
“Are you using me?” Alfred asked, and didn’t let himself feel guilty for cutting the man off. His breath misted the glass. He didn’t wait for Winant to collect his words, and just kept going. His words were not angry, his stance anything but accusing. But he felt his defenses raising, felt himself building his walls all over again. He turned slowly to face the ambassador, his eyes finding the other man’s easily. “Are you hoping that by bringing me here, I can somehow sway public opinion?”  
  
He waited for Winant to answer.  
  
He did not, so Alfred continued, “I am shaped by my people. I do not shape them. It doesn’t work like that… so if that was your intention, it won’t work. I can’t… be of any use here. I can’t change the course of the war. I can’t make the administration or the congress change their minds. I can’t convince them anymore than you can.”   
  
They both fell into silence.   
  
“Alfred,” Winant began.  
  
“I’m of no use to you,” he said quietly.   
  
“Then why are you being dishonest?”   
  
“I’m not,” Alfred muttered. “I’m neutral.”   
  
“Alfred,” the ambassador began again.   
  
Alfred shook his head. “I know you care about them—I know you want to help them. I… I want—” He cut himself off abruptly, and shook his head again. What _did_ he want? “Um. I. I…”   
  
The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, and, slowly, Alfred stepped back from the window, straightening his back and sighing out. The tension wouldn’t leave his shoulders, but he hadn’t expected it to.   
  
“I can’t afford to feel one way or the other. I’m neutral,” Alfred insisted, and lowered his eyes before he could catch Winant’s eye. “No, I can’t blame them for hating me. But I… don’t want to be. Hated, I mean. I can’t afford to be part of all this, to help someone across the ocean, and who has been out of my life for over a century. Why can’t they understand that I don’t want my people to be hurt?”  
  
“These things are not so simple, Alfred,” the ambassador said gently, once Alfred lapsed into silence yet again. He felt as if he was suffocating on all the words he didn’t say. Back home, he felt no shame in saying what he felt, what he thought. But he felt as if he was slowly being strangled here, unable to express anything he truly thought—in fact, he hesitated to investigate what he truly thought. Because he wasn’t sure if he could handle what the truth would reveal.   
  
Alfred sighed. He felt the borderlines he drew inside himself shift and quiver, and he pressed a hand to the side of his neck, resisted the urge to slide his hand down and fist in his shirt. He pressed his palm flat against the lines of muscles in his neck, feeling his breath run still for a moment as he mulled over Winant’s words. He closed his eyes and breathed out.   
  
He couldn’t get anything he wanted back. Nothing would be the same again. In the back of his head he understood this—understood that, as much as he resisted it, there was truth in both England and Winant’s words. And yet, he wanted to get everything back again. Even if it left him battling through fire or water or _anything_ , he just wanted those moments again. Before everything became like this, before he was forced to look at the world and have the world look back at him. He wasn’t ready for any of this. He didn’t want to feel any of this.   
  
“I’d give so much to be able to go back home again and stay there—where it’s safe, where I’m happy.” He kept his eyes closed, felt his heart pounding, and he hated to think what the ambassador’s face was like in that moment. “If _he’s_ too proud to beg me, to want me here beyond necessity—why the hell am I even here? He told me to go home. So why won’t he just leave me and my country alone instead of continually trying to manipulate and guilt me or scare me into helping him?” He breathed out. “Why is everyone so insistent on having me be here? Why can’t I go home and stay there? This war… this war doesn’t, and shouldn’t concern me.”   
  
“These things,” the ambassador said again, no judgment in his voice though each word stabbed into his gut and twisted, “are not so simple, Alfred.”   
  
“But—” he was the one to cut himself off at that time, finding that he had no words. His hands were shaking, and he shoved them into his pocket. He tried to steady his breathing. “Yes, I know. I know I can’t… I know this war concerns me. My people—some of my people… they want to help. But they don’t want war. They don’t want to send their boys to die all over again. And I… don’t know.”   
  
“I’m sorry,” the ambassador said, and when Alfred looked up, he found that the ambassador was approaching him, and did indeed look very unhappy. “Maybe I’m selfish, Alfred. For taking you away from where you belong. But even so… I only want to break your isolationist shell. You cannot survive in this world if you remain this way.”  
  
Alfred backed away a step, ducking away before Winant could touch him. “You’re a human. You have a short life. What can you know of the long-term? What can you know of something like this? I—I’m _fine_ this way, and I don’t need _you_ telling me what is and is not good for me.” He swallowed, felt the words lodge in his throat until he forced them out: “If this is the world I’m meant to be part of, I have no interest in it.”   
  
He didn’t care if it sounded childish, he didn’t care if it was foolish—before the ambassador could say anymore, before the ambassador could say something to shove his entire world into upheaval, Alfred slammed the door open and left the embassy, moving quickly away. He wandered aimlessly for about an hour, until the sun disappeared completely and he forced himself to return before the blackout left him lost for the entire night.   
  
Winant was not there when Alfred returned, and Alfred was fine with that. He slept. Slept for far longer than was necessary and dreamed of his home, far away across the ocean.   
  
It was much easier to just disconnect.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Alfred spent the next few days away from the square, tucked away safely in Hyde Park. It wasn’t far from the embassy, and it let him soothe his own ruffled feathers, and ignore the world around him—at least for a time. He let the workers at the embassy know where he was, just in case any wires or letters came from the president. Alfred waited and waited, hoping for some reason to emerge that required the president’s command for Alfred to return to his home soil. But the letters never came. In the back of his head, Alfred never expected them to—but this didn’t keep him from hoping.   
  
Alfred didn’t mind Hyde Park. It was nothing compared to his own parks—in his own opinion—but it gave him a chance to stay away from everything. He hated running into other people, though, as it broke his own delusion of peace and tranquility. He preferred the solitude—preferred the isolation. Back home, he loved to be around people—but outside the world, he’d rather be with himself and himself alone. He wasn’t ready for the world yet. He wasn’t ready for any of this.   
  
Maybe he really was running away from his responsibilities.   
  
One day, after a few days of drifting between the park and the embassy, avoiding talking to anyone or anything, he strayed away from the main pathways in the park and quickly got lost, but it was okay with him. He was fine with being lost.   
  
It was a cold, damp day, and when he sat beneath a tree, his backside got wet from the dewy grass, but Alfred couldn’t even summon up enough anger to be properly scandalized by this. So he accepted it. He sighed and leaned back against the tree’s trunk. He felt the bark digging into his back and he stared up at the sky through the leaves of the newly budding tree, frowning. Spring time was really approaching now, through the dark and murky nearly perpetual rainfall. Even in the park, the air didn’t smell as clean as the wilderness back home smelled. Cities always smelled like cities, but Alfred wished he could tuck himself away into the trees away in the mountains—his mountains.   
  
“Guess you wouldn’t have anything like that here, huh?” he asked the sky, frowning. “You’re too small. Too bombed. Whatever beautiful stuff you’ve got now is probably just craters.”   
  
In his youth, he had images of England—the rolling green hills, the lily pads drifting across flat pond surfaces. Now when he thought of England, all he saw were skeletons. The boarded up windows, the sandbags and barbed wire in front of governmental buildings, the structural carcasses of bombed buildings, the rubble lining the gutters. There was nothing beautiful about that decay, and he didn’t know just how long England could defend against these storms, no matter how many people believed in him.   
  
He could hardly remember what the country was like outside the urban centers, the days of his youth. And even if he could remember, it’d probably transformed significantly over the one hundred and fifty years it’d been since he’d seen the country last. England always came to him, after all…  
  
Alfred sighed angrily through his nose, flopped onto his back, and rolled onto his side, feeling the wet grass press up against his bare arms until he shivered. It was still too early to leave without a coat, especially if he was content to lie in the cold, wet grass for hours on end. But Alfred had, as always, refused to think ahead. Live in the moment.   
  
Live.  
  
Alfred sighed and inhaled, and a blade of grass tickled his nose. He snorted, softly, until the blade of grass drifted away from his nose and flopped against the corner of his mouth. Alfred lowered his eyes, surveying the swaying, dew-ridden grass. He chewed on his lower lip.   
  
England wasn’t like it used to be. England wasn’t like _he_ used to be. Alfred dragged his hand over the grass, collected it in a bunch and tugged, until the grass pulled up from the dirt and into his fisted hand. Alfred rolled his face away, pressing his forehead against the ground, feeling the wet blades of grass press against his eyelashes and cheekbones. England was different—but the same. Still just as strong, still just as stubborn. But it didn’t take a genius to see that England was falling apart under the pressure, that everyone here was growing wearier and wearier. He could remember Murrow’s broadcasts, his descriptions of the relentless Londoners, acting as normally as possible as a means to thumb their noses at Germany. But he could see that the darkness in everyone’s eyes was growing larger and larger each day. People were weary, people needed help.   
  
And somehow they thought that Alfred—no, the United States—would be the one to give it to them. But Alfred knew his people, knew his congress, knew that it would be too hard. And he told himself, again and again, that he didn’t care. That he couldn’t care less. That he was unconcerned and wasn’t involved in any of these affairs. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t care, that he never would again—that those bridges had burned back in seventeen hundred seventy-six. And that was that.   
  
He lifted his head from the grass, and craned his neck, looking up at the sky. A gray cloud rolled by, slowly, weaving in the sky beyond the tree branches, just now beginning to show buds, just now daring to rejuvenate.   
  
_England is gone._   
  
Alfred inhaled sharply and rolled onto his back, tucking his hands behind his head, cushioning it. He could feel the dirt and stray blades of grass in his hair. But he didn’t care. The water slipped over the lenses of his glasses, but he didn’t make a move to wipe them clean. He toed off his shoes, slowly, and wiggled his way out of his socks. The air was cold to the feel and he shivered involuntarily as he stuck his toes into the soil, felt England beneath his feet, felt the grass and the pulse of the earth. He inhaled again, felt his chest swell, his body shift as he closed his eyes and let himself sink against the ground.   
  
He didn’t care, he reminded himself. His toes curled, the grass weaved between his toes, pressed against his arch, slipped over his heel and Achilles tendon. Alfred stretched, long and languid, feeling his body arch like a bow.   
  
And then he relaxed, shivering again, his clothes wet, his arms and his feet bare to the touch of March weather in London.   
  
“This is stupid,” he said to no one in particular, and wasn’t entirely sure what he meant when he spoke those words.   
  
He sat up, and wiped his feet of with his socks and slipped them back on, tying his shoes back up. He closed his eyes again, grasping at his ankles and bending his head until his forehead rested against his knees.   
  
“Fuck,” he cursed.   
  
He flopped back onto his back again, covering his face with his arms, feeling the bridge of his glasses press painfully into the bridge of his nose. But he didn’t relent—he tried his best to drown out the sights and the sounds of England. He tried his best to pinpoint how much he didn’t care.  
  
 _I don’t care, I don’t care.  
  
I’m neutral.  
  
I can’t care.  
  
I don’t.  
  
I won’t…_   
  
He had to break away from this habit, he had to break it. He had to break away from the habit of always dwelling, of always thinking. He had to set his task, set his beliefs, and stick to it. He had to tell himself he didn’t care, and actually mean it. He had to decide that he no longer cared, that these things did not concern him, and he had to march up to the embassy and demand a ship home. That was all. He had to stop pretending, he had to prevent others from manipulating him and shifting him. He had to push everyone away from him, push away the people standing there, all of them keeping their eyes on him. He could no longer allow this.   
  
_England is gone._   
  
But even so—if he thought about it. If he thought about it for too long, he’d be able to pinpoint what was stupid. And all those pinpoints returned to himself—he was the stupid one. He knew it, but he’d be damned if he admitted it to anyone other than himself.   
  
_It’s only a matter of time before—_  
  
“Don’t fall,” he whispered, before he could stop himself. He curled into himself, grasped his knees with his shaking hands, and said, before he could stop the waver from his voice: “You… you can’t fall. You’re too strong. You can’t fall.”   
  
He sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body shuddering. He clenched his eyes shut, his mind whirling. It was impossible. It was impossible for England to fall—it wasn’t possible for that strong, stubborn, stupid nation to fall, to die. He was too stubborn, too powerful for that. His people were moving, were living, were breathing. He had to be breathing and living, too. He could not fall.  
  
But his gaunt face, his sunken eyes, the precise way he’d hemmed his clothing back together, hemmed it together as if everything was not falling apart. It was impossible. It had to be impossible.   
  
“You can’t,” he whispered.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, but he stayed there for a long while. He kept his eyes closed, his face pressed against the damp grass. Curled into himself, he felt more protected, even as his entire body went spinning out of control.   
  
He was perfectly content to stay that way forever.   
  
“Alfred?” a voice asked, interrupting these thoughts.  
  
So much for staying away forever.   
  
Slowly, Alfred opened his eyes, blinking a few times so that the world came back into focus and color. Then, he tilted his head up and saw the ambassador standing there, frowning and holding an umbrella. It wasn’t raining yet, but Alfred just smiled at him—always prepared, it seemed. It was like him, in a way.   
  
“Hi,” he said, quietly, knowing that his body was shivering.  
  
“What are you doing?”   
  
“Resting,” Alfred said. “It’s hard, ya know. Wanting to tell everyone who I really am, but not being able to. Everyone expects me to be one thing or the other. It’s hard. I don’t know how the other nations do it.”   
  
He shifted his eyes away and saw Winant kneel beside him, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over Alfred’s shaking shoulders. Alfred tugged the jacket close and sighed, sitting up slowly, keeping his eyes lowered.  
  
“No one can tell you who to be,” Winant said.  
  
Alfred sighed. “I get it.” He shifted his eyes away. “Ambassador?”   
  
“Yes?” Winant asked him.  
  
Alfred licked his lips, wishing that the perfect words could cross his mind. But his head was filled with too many images, too many things. There was nothing in his head but thoughts of home, and thoughts of England.   
  
“Do… they really hate me?” he asked, quietly, and hated just how much that simple question betrayed him, just how timid he sounded. Just how often he’d thought on it the last few days. It was ridiculous. But he knew that, above anyone else, it would be Winant he could be honest to—whether the ambassador was using him or not.  
  
The ambassador shifted beside him, touching his shoulder briefly. Alfred sighed, relaxing—there was something so relaxing about being in constant with one of his _own_ people, in contact with an America as he swam through such a foreign land, strangely familiar and yet so far away in another dream world.   
  
“I don’t believe so,” Winant said.  
  
“But the poll said—”  
  
“They are only numbers,” the ambassador dismissed, and it was a strange day when he had the words quick enough to cut Alfred off, who had a tendency to ramble on a mile a minute. “They are not you, and they are not Sir Kirkland.”   
  
Alfred flinched, and then sighed, leaning back against the tree, frowning down at the buttonholes of Winant’s suit jacket, thinking about a jacket similar to this one, with patches and torn seams.   
  
“Hey,” Alfred said.   
  
“Yes?” the ambassador replied, patient.   
  
“Do you… think that England will fall?”   
  
Winant smiled and said, with no hesitation or fumbling of his words: “No.”   
  
“Really?” Alfred asked.  
  
Winant nodded. “I was here, after France fell. You know this.”  
  
“Yeah,” Alfred agreed.  
  
“And these people were not broken, and even now, despite everything, they are not broken.” Here he paused, closing his eyes in thought. A few raindrops began to fall and Winant opened the umbrella, balancing it between the two of them. He hummed low in the back of his throat, and said, quietly, “They carry on.”  
  
Alfred nodded his head. “But…”  
  
Winant shook his head in turn, calling for Alfred’s silence. “They are strong. They do not relent, they do not surrender.”  
  
“No,” Alfred said, his thoughts not on the people, but on the country—the man with burning green eyes, with a sneer he showed to enemies and allies alike. He remembered the many years that passed, the musket pointed to his face, before that man fell to his knees. He remembered the days of the Great War, sitting in trenches filling with water, gun tucked to his side, brows furrowed, his hair matted to his forehead. He remembered those times, remembered the wry smile on his face or the tiniest of smirks, the laughing in the face of great turmoil and the insistence _just watch me show these fuckers who’s in charge here_ before storming out to gun down enemies. Alfred remembered all these things—remembered the high seas, the wind in England’s—Arthur’s—hair. He remembered the sweat, the tears, the blood that drizzled down his face and stained the collars of his well-pressed suits. He remembered that strength. He remembered that stubbornness. He remembered the unrelenting determination. And he knew those things hadn’t disappeared.   
  
“For those in the occupied countries—they are a beacon of hope,” Winant said quietly. “There are many who are stuck in horrible situations, who are forced to bow down to tyranny. But it will not be that way forever.”  
  
Alfred looked up at the ambassador.  
  
The ambassador was silent for a long time as he sat with Alfred there in the park. Alfred knew to be silent—had grown used to the length of silences—knew to wait for Winant to speak.  
  
He didn’t have to wait for long.  
  
“For now, England and its people are the last stand, the last fight against those forces. They are hope for all those who have fallen. But they, too, refuse to give up. The English as well. They do not relent, and they do not back down. There is strength in that—” Here, Winant paused. But once he collected his words, he resumed, “And even now, after months of standing alone and fighting, they are tired. No one can deny that. But even so, they do not back down.”   
  
Alfred shivered again and nodded his head. He said, quietly, “Yeah.”   
  
“You would do well, Alfred, to learn from your old guardian.”   
  
Alfred blinked his eyes open in surprise, turning to stare at Winant in shock. The ambassador smiled, and stood, holding the umbrella over them and holding out his other hand for Alfred to take. Alfred frowned at the hand, but grasped it, standing up and holding the jacket back out to the ambassador. Alfred held the umbrella as the ambassador put it back on.  
  
Alfred understood what was happening. Understood the shift in his chest, the moments he refused to remember or accept. He told himself, deep in his gut, that he shouldn’t care. That’s what he told himself. He felt the slight, uneasy smile that’d worked across his face begun to unwound, and he stumbled a little in his confusion.   
  
“My… old tyrant, you mean,” Alfred corrected, slowly, frowning down to his feet. Even if he couldn’t deny it, deep down—he also knew he couldn’t allow himself to care. “Not my guardian. My tyrant.”   
  
“It’s a shame,” Winant said, in that manner of speaking he adopted sometimes—despite the harshness of such words, there was no judgment in Winant’s words, no condemnation or frustration. Just unrelenting patience.   
  
“What is?” Alfred asked when Winant did not offer an immediate explanation.   
  
“That you cannot see it,” the ambassador said, and began walking. Alfred walked with him, still holding the umbrella as Winant adjusted his lapels and straightened out his buttons. “That the world is… faced with the greatest crisis in its history, and its two most powerful democracies… bound by a common heritage, language, and allegiance to personal liberty… cannot work together.”   
  
Alfred was silent.  
  
He couldn’t think of a response fast enough, and Winant continued: “And they are divided by a prejudice and lack of understanding that has only widened since the Great War.”   
  
“But England—”  
  
“You are not the only one to blame,” Winant said gently. “Sir Kirkland is a very headstrong man, too. You can see as much reflected in his own people.”   
  
“Yeah,” Alfred muttered.  
  
“But,” Winant said gently as they waited to cross the street away from Hyde Park. “You would do well to remember that you, too, are incredibly stubborn. But I believe you come by that honestly.”   
  
Alfred felt his cheeks turn red. “It’s not…” he cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you mean, ambassador.”   
  
“I suppose not,” Winant said, calmly.   
  
_I do not beg, America._   
  
Alfred chewed on the inside of his cheek. For a few blocks, the two walked in silence. Alfred observed the passing buildings, the bombed out buildings, the skeletons, the world-weary people who still managed to tip their hats to the two men as they passed. It was strange that, in a city that should be falling apart at the seams—like the seams of England’s own jacket—should be holding together better than Alfred. It was strange that a city such as this could make Alfred feel as if he was the walking dead, and not the other way around.   
  
But he couldn’t afford to allow himself to care. He was supposed to not care at all. He couldn’t care less—that was his job. To observe from afar, to give as much assistance as he could manage, but not become directly involved. He was neutral. He couldn’t. And it was of England—someone he hadn’t cared for in years. Someone who was a stupid, stubborn old man. Someone who hated him in turn, who couldn’t stand to be around him or look at him. Someone who had moved on from their lives together and regarded him as nothing more than a nuisance. There was no benefit in helping this world-weary island nation, there was no benefit at all. He should cut his losses and return home. He should turn his back and never look back again. He should never have come here in the first place.  
  
 _Go home, America._   
  
He should go back home. He should leave England to die, and never be concerned with it. He had his life, and England had his. He had his home on the other side of the ocean. He should go home and stay there, never to return again.  
  
But in his heart, he knew this was all a lie. He knew what he’d always known, what he’d always hated to admit, what he tried to forget—  
  
He could remember it in the tobacco smoke saturating his study back home. He could remember it in the way England looked at him. He could remember it in the words in Winant’s speech that electrified him. He could remember all this.   
  
He did care.   
  
And he should stop being too proud to admit it.   
  
Alfred inhaled sharply. “I need to talk to him.”  
  
The ambassador looked surprised, so much so that he almost stumbled. Alfred caught him, effortlessly, hand around the ambassador’s elbow and steadying him. He looked away with a blush once the ambassador steadied himself and gave Alfred that surprised—pleasantly surprised—look.  
  
“Cause… we fought, last time,” he offered as way of disclaimer. “That’s all.”   
  
There was a long pause, and then there was the shift. The ambassador smiled, and he grasped the wrist of the hand holding his elbow. “Shall I give you his address?”   
  
Alfred just nodded his head, refusing to look up until his cheeks were no longer red.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Look, England,” Alfred said to the door to England’s house. He swallowed thickly, and shifted from foot to foot. He knotted his fingers together, cracked his knuckles, and then shook his hands out until they flopped to his side. “I’m not here to fight. I just wanna talk. And don’t slam the door in my face.”  
  
He inhaled, and pressed his palm to the door, feeling the soft wood beneath his touch. He curled his fist, about to knock. Then he thought better of it and retracted his hand with a sharp exhale.   
  
“Okay,” he said. “Steady.”   
  
He cleared his throat and self-consciously smoothed his hand through his hair. He dropped it quickly away, and shoved his hands into his pockets, burying his nose against the lip of his coat. He cracked his knuckles a few more times, but there were no loud, satisfying pops to accompany the action.   
  
“Jesus,” he swore. “What am I doing?”  
  
He looked over his shoulder, debating getting the hell out of there.  
  
But that was cowardly. He froze, and turned back towards the door. He had to be brave. Winant thought it was so bad that he was so isolationist? Fine, he’d take a step. And prove to him that nobody wanted him, only needed him. He’d try and smooth it over with England, if only to try and assure him that none of this was _his fault._ And then he could be on his way, and he could return home without a care in the world. He was sure the wire from the president would get there any day now. He’d be able to go back home, enjoy the approaching summer, and its swelling heat and sweet tea in the south and iced lemonade in the north. Yeah, his mouth watered just thinking about it.   
  
He cared. He knew he cared. Somewhere deep inside himself, he cared. The rest of him may be neutral, but the small parts of him couldn’t forget Murrow’s broadcasts. He couldn’t forget the way his people wanted to help England’s people. He couldn’t forget the shadows that stretched across the emptying streets of London. He couldn’t forget the moment when he was outside the door as Kennedy spoke to the president. He couldn’t forget his thoughts when he saw Americans come home by the boatload, returning from England to escape a war they wanted no part of. He couldn’t forget the spark in his gut at the thought of _England being gone._   
  
He rocked back and forth on his feet, and tapped his toes against the ground.   
  
“Okay,” he said again. “Relax. It’s only England.”   
  
Before he could give himself a bigger pep-talk, however, the door suddenly flew open and Alfred yelped in surprise, jumping back a little.   
  
England was there, eyes on the door handle. “Who is out here talking so damned mu—”  
  
The words died on his lips when he lifted his head and saw Alfred there. His face shifted from a look of confusion to one of dismay, and then thinly veiled anger. His eyebrows slanted together, and his nose wrinkled in distaste. He looked away, briefly, his thumb pressing against the lock on the door. Then he whipped his face back up, steeling his face into one of forced indifference.   
  
“You—!” he started.   
  
“I’m not here to fight!” Alfred shouted, loudly, before England could start shouting at him or slam the door in his face. Just to be sure, he planted his hand against the door, to keep it open. He cleared his throat a few times, and still his voice came out a little too high when he shouted out: “I just wanna talk.”  
  
England stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. Alfred stared right back, daring him to push him away or try to wrestle control of the door out of his hold.   
  
England continued to stare at him, and finally looked away, muttering, “What the hell…?” And then he stepped away, turning his back to Alfred and walking. “Come inside before you let the damned cold in.”   
  
Alfred didn’t wait to be told twice.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**  
  
\- President Roosevelt was notoriously sparse in his communications with the embassy in London. Winant rarely got cables from him. Churchill, too, often complained about the lack of communication and apparent concern from the US president. Letters, too, were very rare from the United States. But this is mostly on account of the U-boats sinking merchant ships. Letters could take weeks, sometimes months, to arrive—if they ever arrived at all.   
  
\- [Hyde Park](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hyde_Park,_London), just a few blocks away from Grosvenor Square.   
  
\- That poll is an actual poll from the time. When Britons were asked which non-axis country they viewed the most favorably, out of the choices, USA came in last place, with the same favorability ratings given to Italy, their enemies. I totally had a link for this, but it seems that I’ve lost my source for this. The number was something like thirty-five percent of Englishmen viewed US favorably and Italy favorably. Not the most shining of endorsements.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred breaks out into the world again.
> 
> Time stamp: March and April of 1941.

“I don’t have any coffee,” the other nation said quietly as he opened a cupboard, stocked with rationed food and canned necessities. Alfred watched as England groped around, standing on the tips of his toes in order to reach the top shelf, pulling down a tin of tea. His hands were thinned, paled, and even from the distance of an entire room, Alfred could make out the blue veins spiderwebbing under his skin. He always looked so pale, so small.   
  
“Do you ever?” Alfred asked, eyeing the tin of tea so he could avoid eyeing the other nation instead.  
  
“It helps calm me at night,” England said, “since I don’t sleep anymore anyway.”   
  
That would explain the bags under his eyes. But England soon grew visibly uncomfortable as the words settled between them, perhaps realizing he’d opened up too much, let vulnerable words fall away from him when he was doing his best to stay strong. He cleared his throat, a bit awkwardly, and fiddled with the tin, trying to pry the lid off and being unable to.   
  
“Sure,” Alfred said, for lack of anything better to say. England shifted, finally managing to pry open the lid. The kitchen filled with the smell of earl grey. England stared moodily into the container, his brows furrowed. Then he grew reminded of his company and straightened. Alfred bit his tongue. The next few minutes were spent in a tensed silence as England collected some dirty, chipped teacups from the sink and cleaned them as best he could.   
  
Alfred wandered towards the kitchen’s window, not boarded up, and looked outside. The rain was misting over London. Alfred watched the barrage balloons dotting the horizon, strung between the clouds. He didn’t turn away from the window until he heard the whistle of a teakettle. It startled him, a sudden sound piercing the thickened silence.   
  
Alfred looked up in time to see England approach him, slowly, eyes out towards the horizon. He set down a cup of tea, steaming and a muddy color, on the windowsill beside him. Alfred looked down at it and when he looked up again, England was already moving away, head bowed, staring into the cup he held in his own hands as if it held all the mysteries of life.  
  
“Why are you here?” England asked to his cup.  
  
Alfred frowned and passed his thumb over the rim of his own teacup, not quite picking it up yet. He inhaled and then, slowly, swallowed his pride: “I wanted to talk.”   
  
“So you said,” England muttered, still staring into the curling steam of earl grey. He said, softly, his voice heavy with venom, “You weren’t satisfied with our last meeting?”  
  
Alfred wasn’t sure if England was being sarcastic or not. Alfred’s frown deepened, and he downed a long gulp of his tea. The tea burned his tongue, however, and he jerked his face away, lifting a hand to cup over his mouth as he shouted out a muffled, “Fuck!”  
  
“Fool,” England spat and turned towards him, brow furrowed, eyes on Alfred—finally. “You fool, don’t just gulp it down like an animal.”   
  
Alfred coughed a few times and straightened, rubbing his hand over his mouth and chin and wiping it on his pant leg, keeping his head bowed, his face burning. The room was thick with the smell of earl grey. His tongue was numb and when he took a sip of his drink again, he couldn’t taste it at all. He kept his eyes down, his cheeks red, feeling the anger, the shame pressing at the back of his throat.   
  
He had to be calm. He couldn’t let anything shake him, couldn’t let anything break because of it. He took a steadying breath, ignored the way his glasses fogged up when he pressed the teacup to his lips again. He couldn’t taste the tea now, but it was probably better. It wasn’t coffee, which Alfred much preferred. But England hadn’t offered him any cream or sugar, which was also to be expected—England wouldn’t be so quick to waste his rationed food on someone like Alfred.   
  
“You best not waste that tea,” England said, voice tight.   
  
Alfred picked the teacup back up again. He watched England push the tin of tea back onto its shelf. He took a sip of his tea. “… Right.”   
  
“Sit down,” England said, voice still tensed, back still to Alfred. Alfred stared after him as he slowly dragged the wooden chair across the floor and sat down. It squeaked under his weight. He didn’t take his eyes away from England.   
  
He knew that England could feel Alfred’s eyes on him—he moved jerkily, as if made of wood. Well aware of the eyes on him, he tried to act naturally. Alfred chewed on his lip as he watched England, regretting once again coming here. He should have stayed away, he should have gone home. If England was so content to see him as nothing but a useless, foolish country whom he could only continually criticize for showing reserve when it came to sending his men to die, then he had no business being here. He had nothing to say to England, if that was the case. He told himself he should be angry. He told himself, again, that he should not care.   
  
He swirled his thumb idly around the lip of the teacup, and knew that the _should not_ s were too long clutching at his thoughts, and weren’t true anymore. But he’d be damned if he ever admitted it out loud. He’d be damned if he tried his hardest to divorce all concern from this situation.   
  
“So what was it that you wished to speak on?” England said, once he could no longer find more dishes to distract himself with.   
  
Alfred licked his dry lips and swallowed a few times, trying to work around the cold dryness of his throat. “I… um.”   
  
He watched England shift, press his hands to the countertop and duck his head. He sighed, long and languid, and his shoulders slumped and tensed between shoulder blades. Alfred watched him try to relax, but it didn’t work. He watched, slowly, as England tensed up, his fists curling, his shoulders hunching up towards his ears. He heard him take a few steadying breaths, slumping out of his body in a hiss.   
  
“This is ridiculous,” England muttered, and then he whipped around to face Alfred fully, his green eyes narrowed. “ _What_ are you doing here? You came here to _talk_? Well, you aren’t talking, America!”   
  
Alfred reeled back, eyes widening in his surprise. The silence returned after England’s outburst, however. Alfred stared at him in surprise as England’s shoulders continued to wind up again into tension, growing ever closer to his ears. His jaw was set, his teeth grinding together as he stared at Alfred, undoubtedly trying to figure him out.   
  
“Don’t,” England began, slowly, when Alfred did not speak, “Don’t tell me you’re here to _gloat._ Here to _mock me._ ”  
  
“What? No!” Alfred shouted. He felt the alarm rise in his gut.   
  
“For fuck’s sake,” England hissed to himself and yanked the empty teacup away from Alfred, his brows furrowed. “Leave.”   
  
“I’m not here to gloat, god damn it! Listen to me!” Alfred snapped, standing up and letting his chair grind against the ground again with a loud scrape. England sent him a withering look and Alfred felt his hands ball into fists. “I’m not! I just wanted to talk to you! Fuck, can’t a guy do that without it being a crime?”   
  
“Not when it’s you,” England barked, flaring up. His shoulders looked far too tensed, and his shirt hung on him limply, making him look far too skinny, far too starving. “What could you possibly have to say to me that you haven’t already said? What have I to say to you that I haven’t already suffered for twice over?”  
  
“England, listen,” Alfred insisted, taking a step towards England.   
  
England turned his nose up a little and walked away from Alfred, walking around the table and shoving Alfred’s chair back into its place. He left his hands there, gripping the chair like a lifeline.   
  
“I’m listening,” England said through clenched teeth, his eyes slanted angrily away.   
  
Alfred swallowed thickly. “I’m not here to gloat, okay? I’m not here to mock you or laugh at you or belittle you, got it? Stop making me out to be a bad guy, okay? Shit.”   
  
England stayed silent. Alfred could see another scar along the back of his neck when England tilted his head like that.  
  
Alfred’s throat felt too dry. “I… I’m here because I… I don’t like the way our last conversation ended. Shit, are you going to make me spell it out for you?”   
  
“So, what? Are you here to talk about joining the war, finally, and can’t even deign to tell me?” England snapped. Alfred could recognize it for the avoidance it was, could recognize that England was trying to rile him up, trying to get him away, trying to banish him from where he felt most vulnerable. But even if Alfred could recognize it, it didn’t stop him from throwing up his own walls, couldn’t stop him from getting angry.   
  
“I’m not joining the war!” Alfred shouted.   
  
“Get out,” England barked, and pointed towards the door—as if Alfred could forget how to get out of such a small home. Alfred shook his head and England crinkled his nose in his anger. He marched forward and grabbed Alfred by his shirt collar. Alfred squawked, but despite England’s apparent weakness and smallness, Alfred couldn’t shake himself from England’s hold.   
  
“I’m not here to gloat at you or to mock you but I’m also not here to grovel to you or join your war,” Alfred said firmly. He jerked his head back, trying to wrench England’s hand from his shirt collar. “I just… wanna talk to you. Jesus Christ!”   
  
England stared at him for a long moment, his face twisted in frustration. His eyes slanted up to Alfred’s face and then flickered away, surveying his messy house, the forgotten teacups back in the kitchen. Alfred stared at him, breathing hard, his jaw quivering before he set it straight. Finally, England’s hold on his collar slackened. Alfred lifted his hand and shoved England’s hand away.   
  
“Jesus,” he said again.   
  
England gave him a fierce look and turned his face away, walking away from the front door and back into his home. He stooped, picking up some scattered papers—mostly newspapers—and collected them in his arm, straightening them out as he went, keeping his eyes downcast. Alfred couldn’t tell if the movements were for distraction or for hiding embarrassment at his own actions. Alfred followed him.   
  
“So,” Alfred began, and trailed off as he followed England, who bustled around his house with creaking expertise. His dirty hair fell into his eyes as he worked, and Alfred just followed him. It’d probably been a long time since England cleaned. Probably a long time since he had a visitor, too, from the looks of it. England passed by his bookshelf and straightened a few bookends haphazardly, his face strategically turned away from Alfred.   
  
Finally, though, England looked up at Alfred. He paused. Alfred stared at him.   
  
And then England walked close to him. Alfred stiffened up, almost expecting England to hit him. Instead, though, England lifted his hand and straightened Alfred’s collar he’d knocked askew from dragging him. He stepped back, still gripping a large pile of newspapers.   
  
Alfred lifted his hand, touching at the collar in stilted silence, and knew his eyes were widened a little in surprise. It was hardly any kind of gesture, and yet it struck Alfred.   
  
“You wanted to talk,” England said, frowning. “You aren’t talking.”  
  
“Um,” Alfred said. “I guess I hadn’t… really thought so far ahead. Just to the ‘need to talk’ part and not actually… what to say.”   
  
England snorted, and turned his face away. Alfred couldn’t tell if it was a snort of amusement or resentment. England walked over towards an armchair and collected the scattered papers there. Once he’d finished, he looked back to Alfred and gestured his hand towards the chair, offering it to him.   
  
Alfred swallowed and walked over to it, slowly sitting down.   
  
England cleared off the papers on the other chair and sat down as well, setting the newspapers and documents on his table with careful ease. His hands lingered there before he straightened his back and deposited his hands into his lap.   
  
And they continued to sit in silence.   
  
The silence stretched on, all the while with their faces turned away from one another. England, undoubtedly, finally waiting, finally being patient. Alfred trying to figure out _why he was there_ , why he wouldn’t just leave. Why he cared. Why he couldn’t find any words to say anything, why he couldn’t sort out his thoughts when it came to England.   
  
But it soon became clear that the silence had gone on too long. Alfred heard England sigh, long and exhausted.   
  
“Well then,” England said. Alfred turned to look at him, but England was staring at one of his boarded up windows. “As pleasant as this visit has been, America, I do have things to take care of, so if you’ll excuse me…”  
  
“Wait,” Alfred said, and sat up a bit straighter. “Wait, I—”  
  
“I haven’t time to waste,” England said tersely, “unlike you.”  
  
Alfred felt his face flare up. “Damn it, England, I—”  
  
“Some of us are fighting a war here,” England said with thinly veiled disdain.  
  
“I knew coming here was a mistake—”  
  
“No one is keeping you here!” England barked. “I am tired of this, America.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“I am growing tired of your ambassador and my prime minister constantly insisting I contact you. I am growing tired of hearing about you and your people and _your_ struggles. And above all else, I am tired of hearing your people—your ambassador—tell me that I am strong and capable and can withstand all of this.”  
  
“But—”   
  
“I don’t care to hear I _can_ win. I want to know _how_ I can win this. I don’t want to watch my people crumble.” England inhaled sharply, and let it sink out of him in a tired sigh. In the dim lighting, Alfred could see the heavy bags under his eyes, the paleness to his skin, the veins criss-crossing. “I’m tired of it.”   
  
Alfred stared at him, stunned by the sudden onslaught of words. He blinked, bewildered, up at the other nation as he stood up, leaning over Alfred with as much rage and fortitude as he could manage.   
  
“You and your people have made their stances quite clear on all matters, so discussing it further is merely an insult to my pride and an insult to your _very_ busy schedule. I’m sure.”   
  
England stepped away, and made to show Alfred to the door. But Alfred wasn’t about to let England get the last word in. He stood up, too—jumped up, rather. “Quit acting like everyone in my country hates yours!”   
  
“Don’t they?” England snapped. “Haven’t you made it quite clear that you do not care what happens to me?”  
  
“Just because I won’t join the war doesn’t mean I _hate_ you!” Alfred shouted before he could stop the words from coming. He reeled back a little, his face turning even redder. He jerked his face away and kicked at the newspapers on the table. They scattered across the room, fluttering innocently to the floor.  
  
“Oh, that’s very nice,” England sneered. “That’s certainly productive. Look at the big, independent nation—acting nothing but a spoilt child!”   
  
Alfred opened his mouth to say something, but England ignored him, bending over to pick up the scattered newspapers again. He muttered out curses under his breath, and the air around Alfred seemed to grow colder—cold enough that he shivered just a little. He looked away, face flushed with shame at losing control. But his slip—he wasn’t sure if England had even noticed it.  
  
He was supposed to hate England. It went beyond not caring for him. England was the reason for all his grievances, his old tyrant, his constant annoyance during the younger years of his new nationhood, and the manipulator that forced him into the Great War. Even if his nation was neutral when it came to this war, Alfred himself hated him. He had to. Having it be any other way just didn’t make sense at all.   
  
England finished retrieving the last of the newspapers, again, and deposited them back onto the table. He kept his hand pressed on top of the pile, however, and flickered his eyes up towards Alfred—as if testing to see if the other nation would attempt to knock them down again.   
  
“There are a lot of my people,” Alfred said cautiously, once their eyes locked, “who do not hate your country, England.”   
  
“Is that so?” England sneered, his voice dripping with venom. “And pray tell, boy, where are they now?”   
  
Alfred bristled a little, his shoulders tensing up. “They—they’re all listening. To Murrow. About the Blitz. They know what’s going on. They want to help.”   
  
“And what damned good it does me,” England snapped.   
  
“You aren’t listening to me!” Alfred shouted.  
  
“Give me one good reason why I should care one bit what you have to say,” England shouted back. “Give me one reason, America, as to _why_ I should care one way or the other what you think about me and my war efforts. You, who stays here despite knowing your cold heart cannot be swayed. You, who can look upon my country, my cities, and my people with barely contained scorn. You, who sees fit to watch me fall. Why should I give a _damn_ about what you have to say to me?”   
  
Alfred resisted the urge to step away, to back down. He felt the flare in his chest, felt his eyes narrow and his jaw set. “I’m just saying you should stop acting like everybody on my side hates you and we aren’t lifting a damn finger to help you. Fuck you, you’re getting weapons and food from us! So we aren’t packing in our boys to follow along. I get it. You hate that. But I don’t want my people to die for a cause that doesn’t affect them. You all shouldn’t hate us cause we refuse to take that last step into war!”   
  
“Of course it affe—!” England cut himself off abruptly, slamming his eyes shut and hissing out a few muttered curses. Again, the air around Alfred seemed to grow colder and he crossed his arms over his chest, a defensive gesture. “Is _that_ what you’re so concerned about?”  
  
“What—”  
  
“How my people _see you_? You aren’t concerned about our efforts, our pains, our sacrifices—you just don’t want us to _hate you?_ ” England shouted. “You want to set the record straight that not _everyone hates me_?” He rolled his eyes, a bit over dramatically—in the back of his head, Alfred remembered to blame Shakespeare for the theatrical side in England—“Rest assured that I have seen the error of my ways, America. I am so pacified now.”  
  
“You should be happy that they care at all! That they’re doing anything at all!”  
  
“Happy!” England repeated, and almost laughed. He turned his face away and spoke, as if speaking to someone else, his voice soft, “Happy, he says.”   
  
“Haven’t you ever been happy?” Alfred shouted. “Haven’t the efforts been beneficial at all? Are you honestly not going to be satisfied until I’m lying there, bleeding, beside you?”   
  
England flared up. “I’ve found happiness to be like a bullet in my back.” England drew his lips down into a deeper frown. “Especially if this is the means you attempt to make me _happy_ and _satisfied._ ”   
  
“I—”  
  
“I don’t care any longer, America,” England said quietly, his voice losing some of its edge, though the venom remained. “Why are you still here? Why are you so content to aggravate me? Can’t you tell my nerves are flustered enough as it is?”   
  
This wasn’t how it was meant to be going at all. This wasn’t how he’d intended for it to happen.   
  
“England—!”   
  
England turned away. Alfred felt the dread pooling in his stomach, the little voice in the back of his head chastising him for letting things fall apart again. He rushed forward, wrapping his hand around England’s wrist.  
  
England recoiled. “Unhand me!”   
  
“There are lots of Americans who care about you, okay?”   
  
England stared at him for a moment, and then tried to jerk his hand back. “And what good does that do me when they leave my city but the thousands at the first sign of war?”   
  
“They want to stay safe? Can you blame them? Their lives are short!”   
  
England was still struggling, but Alfred refused to relinquish his grip. Eventually, England gave up, his lip curled back in distaste.   
  
“No,” England said quietly, his body shuddering as if feeling a pain down the entire length of his body. His freed arm shifted and his hand touched at his shoulder, rubbing slightly. Alfred knew there were scars there. “No,” he said again, quieter, and seemed to extinguish himself right before Alfred’s eyes. He didn’t quite slump, but the acceptance was there. “No,” he said a third time, and continued, “I cannot blame them for wanting to leave—not when my home is like this. It used to be beautiful, it used to be vibrant. Now everything is bombed out. Now everything is falling apart. It’s a shame… it’s a shame that those who stayed and those who come now have to see my country in such a state.”   
  
“Winant cares,” Alfred said quietly. “That’s one, at least.”   
  
England was quiet for a long moment. And then he inhaled.  
  
He tugged at his wrist. “There’s a particularly nasty wound on this arm, boy. Let me go.”   
  
Alfred, suppressing the spark of guilt in his gut, released England. England rubbed at his wrist silently, keeping his eyes down. Ashamed to reveal his weaknesses to someone like Alfred. Alfred couldn’t quite blame him for the shame. It was not as if Alfred had ever give him reason to expect sympathy or compassion.   
  
“He believes you’ll make it through. He believes that you’ll live through this, England,” Alfred continued. England did not lift his hand, but continued instead to rub at his wrist. When he rolled up his sleeve, Alfred saw the cut running up his arm, as if he’d been caught in razor wire. The bandages were falling loose. Alfred’s breath caught. But he kept speaking, because he could not stand to fall away into silence again, to hear nothing else but the sound of rustling bandages and knitting skin: “He does not think this is the end of you.”  
  
“And what of you?” England said, calmly, leaning down over the back of a chair and retrieving a first aid kit he must leave out at all times, just in case. He did not look up at Alfred, though Alfred did feel his blood freeze in his veins. “What do you believe will become of me?”   
  
England set the first aid kit on the table and unraveled a few fresh bandages, curling it around his injured arm. The hand of the injured arm did its best to pin the bandage there, though the bandaging remained loose. Alfred did not dare step forward to offer his help. England worked in silence, streamlined into a bandage-wrapping expert. He finished his work quickly and closed the kit with a dismissive snap. He rolled down the fabric of his shirt and redid the buttons on the cuff. He still did not look up once he’d finished, however. Alfred realized he was still waiting for Alfred’s answer.   
  
“I…” he began, hushed. His heart thundered.   
  
At the pause, however, England looked up and their eyes locked. England stared at him, with those haunting eyes of his—widely green in a starkly bleak, grey world. His expression held, for once, no resentment, only pained curiosity. His face was slack, his lips quirked into a neutral frown. His face was so paled, so thin.   
  
Alfred swallowed, his throat feeling constricted, thickened with the emotions he kept swallowing back. He didn’t dare close his eyes, though the urge was there.   
  
“What do you believe will become of me?” England repeated, startling calm now as he stared at Alfred. “What do you think will become of this foolish island? Of me? I’d once thought I’d remain untouched. I’d once thought that if I avoided it all, I would be able to keep my people safe. And now I am alone. After those years of preparation… I was completely unprepared. And now I am falling apart.”   
  
“You—”  
  
“Don’t you dare mock me for that,” England muttered, expression still calm but the slightest moment of insecurity coiling in his eyes. He did not take his eyes away from Alfred.   
  
“I don’t—I don’t think you’ll fall,” Alfred said quietly, refusing to rise to England’s bait for fighting again—he refused to give into that easy out. Not this time.   
  
There was a flicker in England’s eyes again. He traced the lines of Alfred’s own face. And then, just as slowly as before, England slanted his eyes up to him again, and Alfred looked away.  
  
He licked his dry lips. “I think you’re too strong to let that happen. If you do fall, it’ll be after they cut your legs out from under you and force you to stay down even after that. You won’t go down without a fight.”   
  
“Hm,” England said, and Alfred wasn’t sure if that was a good response or not. England turned away, collecting the first aid kit off from the table and walking back to set it back into its original position, behind one of the armchairs. He kept his back to Alfred for a long moment, his hand resting on the chair’s back. “Do you really believe that?”  
  
Alfred paused at that, and tried to focus his coiling thoughts long enough to pinpoint if that was the truth or if he was simply parroting Winant’s words to England—just saying what England wanted to hear to avoid conflict. But when had that ever stopped him before?   
  
“I do.”   
  
England sighed, and the tension seemed to weave itself away from his shoulders again. He curled his fingers briefly around the chair before stepping back and letting his arms fall back to his sides. He stayed like that for a long moment, his face tilted away, as if listening to something far away—or waiting. Alfred himself was always horrible at waiting.   
  
“Look,” Alfred said quietly. “They brought me here not so I would fight with you all the time, but so that I could get to know you—and Winant wants us to work through our misunderstandings and stuff. So you’re… you’re stuck with me for a little while, okay? I know you probably hate it, but you’ll just have to deal with it for now.”   
  
“… Do you have anything to smoke?” England asked instead of quite responding to Alfred’s words, still not turning to face Alfred.  
  
Alfred lifted his hand and felt at his chest, at the pocket of his jacket where he usually kept his cigarettes. “Uh, no. I ran out a few weeks ago.”   
  
“Ah,” England said, and turned to face him then, his expression a practiced neutrality. He sighed after a moment, and spoke, with more weight befitting a lack of cigarettes: “Alright.”  
  
“Alright?” Alfred parroted.   
  
“Alright,” England repeated, “I’ll put up with you for now. If I must.” England closed his eyes. “But don’t misunderstand—I’m doing this for my people and for your ambassador. My people are quite taken with him. And it’s too much effort to have to fight with you all the time.”  
  
Alfred’s eyebrow twitched and he sighed, feeling a little angry—and possibly hurt. “Okay. Good.”   
  
“Quite,” England said, tersely, and walked past Alfred—back towards his kitchen. He set the kettle down on the stove again and began preparing another cup of tea for himself. He didn’t fill the second cup with the tea, but Alfred was thankful for that. The way England scooped at the bottom of the tin for the last dregs of loose leaf left Alfred feeling a little empty and scraped himself.   
  
He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pants, leaning against the doorframe.   
  
“I… should probably leave,” he said at last, watching England’s back, unable to think of a reason to stay—unable to think of a reason why he wanted to stay.   
  
England paused, and looked at him over his shoulder. His eyes drifted over Alfred’s face, and then away, focusing on something in the middle distance just above Alfred’s head. Alfred looked up to see what it could be, but all he saw was the ceiling. England’s lips twitched after a moment and he turned his attention back to Alfred: “Oh, stay. I’m about to eat.”   
  
Alfred blinked in surprise, and England’s cheeks turned red before he turned his face away again, filling the kettle with water. He bent his head, and even from that distance, Alfred could trace the line of England’s spine over the back of his neck and down beneath his threadbare clothing. It would be good, once the weather became more suited for spring and moved away from the devastating winter the country had faced, if this was the kind of clothing England was left to wear.   
  
“But…” Alfred began, feeling he had to protest staying.   
  
“Even if you came here to declare war against my empire,” England said calmly, “there’s no sense in letting food go to waste.” _What food?_ Alfred wanted to ask, but bit his tongue. “The faeries seem to think so, at least.”  
  
Alfred’s eyes widened a little and he looked around wildly. He remembered England’s talks from so long ago—the stories about the fae and their powers. He couldn’t see any of the forms, and in the end England was probably just going crazy from being bombed so often, he reasoned, so he left it alone.   
  
“Your cooking might make me declare war,” Alfred said instead. England gave him a sharp look.  
  
The minutes ticked away, and the kitchen soon filled with the familiar black smoke that Alfred remembered quite well from his youth—and from those sad days out in the trenches during the Great War.   
  
“So, um,” Alfred began, not overly concerned by the strange substance stuck to England’s cooking pot. He lifted his voice over the sounds of England’s continual cursing of all things culinary. “Tell me, um. How have you been these last few years?”   
  
If Winant wanted him to resolve their differences and misunderstandings, what better way to start, right?   
  
England, however, paused, and gave him a slightly strained look. His eyes narrowed. “Are you honestly asking me?”  
  
Alfred feared the food catching on fire some more with England’s attention turned away from the stove, so he said, quickly, “Sure?”   
  
“I,” England said, resolutely, “have been simply _horrid._ ”  
  
“Oh,” Alfred said, staring down at the table. Of course that’d be the answer.  
  
After a moment, though, England set down a plate in front of Alfred—charred food Alfred wasn’t quite sure how to identify.   
  
“But,” England said, slowly, frowning. “I’ve been worse, before.” Then his lips quirked up into a sad little smile, fleetingly. It disappeared soon enough, so quickly that Alfred wondered if it’d just been an illusion. “At least I’m not bombed as much as before. At least my people aren’t starving as much as before.”   
  
Alfred stared down at the charred piece of food, and then back up at England. England stared back, looking taken aback. Alfred couldn’t be sure what his expression looked like, but if the uncertainty, the frustration, and the unhappiness bubbling in his gut was anything to go by—he probably looked completely ridiculous. But England did not glare at him. Instead, he sighed, and shook his head.   
  
“Don’t give me that look,” England said, quietly. “It doesn’t suit you.”  
  
And then he turned to get another plate for himself.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Alfred could tell that the ambassador was pleased, following Alfred’s last meeting with England. Winant never actually said it, but it was written all over his face. He patted Alfred on the shoulder, once, and smiled at him before continued to his work when Alfred came back, after a burnt dinner at England’s—and Alfred had only blushed and retreated to the couch, sitting down and reading the newspaper to hide his red face.   
  
And he knew the fact that he and England spent a few more times together down at parliament or at the embassy was much to the delight of Winant, and to England’s Prime Minister as well. That wasn’t to say the meetings with England weren’t horribly tensed and awkward, but at least they could manage to say three words to each other without shouting one another down. Alfred supposed, sardonically, that for the two of them that could be considered as successful meeting.   
  
So much so that, after another awkward meeting with England at the embassy, Winant announced, “The Prime Minister wants to meet you, Alfred.”   
  
Alfred started in surprise, and almost subconsciously his hand reached for a cigarette, as a means to keep his nerves calm. But he, still, had none. So he just blinked owlishly at Winant and shoved his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.  
  
“What?”   
  
“You’ve been here for almost five weeks now—”  
  
“It hasn’t been that long,” Alfred protested. And then did the math in his head, counting the days spent in London.  
  
As he was doing this, Winant reminded him, gently, “It’s the start of April now. You’ve been here since the start of March.”   
  
“Well fuck,” Alfred said, his breath whooshing out of him in a soft whistle. “I guess you’re right.”  
  
The ambassador cracked a small smile and shook his head. “The Prime Minister and I have been working together, and he has expressed interest in knowing you. Of course, before, you hadn’t wanted to. But now… if you’d want…”  
  
Alfred frowned, and chewed on the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t really think of a reason to say no without it being a problem for Winant (and a problem for him, once England found out). How bad could it be?   
  
“I guess… it’d be okay.”   
  
Winant perked up a bit. “It seems your mood really has improved since coming here?”  
  
Blushing again, Alfred shrugged his shoulders and crossed his arms. “Yeah, well. It is what it is, I guess.”   
  
The corners of Winant’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Yes, of course. I’ll let the Prime Minister know at once.”   
  
“Okay,” Alfred said, and retreated to the window, leaning against the windowsill and looking out the glass. It was a clearer day. He thought, absently, that perhaps he’d spent too long at one place, too long staring out this window. “So,” he said, “Is he in London or what?”   
  
“The visit will be at Chequers, actually,” the ambassador said. “For the weekend.”   
  
“Ch… Where?” Alfred asked, blinking. Winant looked amused, and Alfred realized, distantly, that he’d heard of the place before—Winant often went there during weekend visits.   
  
“The Prime Minister’s country estate,” Winant said. “It might do you well to leave the city for a while.”   
  
It was Alfred’s turn to perk up instantly. “Outside the city? In the country?”   
  
“Yes,” Winant said, and seemed amused that Alfred had no idea where this place was. “It’s in Buckinghamshire.”   
  
Alfred had no idea what those words meant, but he felt himself growing excited—not for Churchill or England or anything like that, but because of the prospect of being out in nature again, away from a bombed city. “Are there any mountains? Trees?”  
  
“There are the Chiltern Hills…” Winant said. He must have seen Alfred’s excitement. “And there are, of course, the estate gardens.”  
  
Alfred nodded, only half-hearing what Winant had to say. Maybe he wasn’t so excited for the company—England _and_ his boss? God!—but the idea of being able to walk in gardens and up hills was something he’d longed for the entire month he’d been in London, straying between the embassy, Hyde Park, and Whitehall.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Whoa,” Alfred said softly as he caught sight of the house they were heading towards, and the hills behind it.   
  
“Stop pressing your face against the glass, it’s unbecoming,” England said with a disdainful snort from where he sat beside Alfred. Alfred peeled his face away from where he’d pressed it up against the glass and curled his lip up.  
  
“Well, excuse me! I thought you’d be all stuffy and superior about me liking something of _yours_ , but I guess I was wrong!” Alfred said, refusing to back down from England’s constant attempts to make him feel young and stupid. He’d press his face to the glass if he damned well pleased!   
  
England bristled and his hands balled into fists. “I am never stuffy and superior.”   
  
“Yeah right, and _I’m_ the King of England!”   
  
England opened his mouth to shoot back a witty retort.   
  
“Gentlemen,” Winant interrupted softly, and the two nations stopped immediately, both adopting a similar deer-in-the-headlights look. They both leaned back against their seats, Alfred in particular feeling guilty for acting so childish in front of his ambassador. Winant said nothing more on the matter other than a quiet, “We’re almost there.”   
  
The words were inconsequential, as it was obvious they were almost there, but the ambassador’s words brought the two back into one accord of tentative peace, and they both sat back, staring moodily at each other for a few moments before both turning away at the same time, brows furrowed. The ambassador sighed as they pulled up to the expansive country house.   
  
As they left the governmental car, a woman was there to greet them.   
  
“Arthur, Gil,” she said warmly as she stepped down the steps, smiling at them. She was all charm. She took England’s hand warmly and squeezed it, and then gave a warm nod and smile to Winant. And then she turned towards Alfred, and her smile seemed to soften. “And this must be Mister Alfred Jones.”   
  
“Hello,” Alfred said, politely, and took the woman’s hand when she extended it.   
  
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said. “My name is Clementine Churchill and I am so happy to see you finally come for a visit. Both Arthur and Gil have told me so much about you.”   
  
Arthur cleared his throat. “Madam, we should get inside.”   
  
Clementine, still smiling, released Alfred’s hand and swept the three men up into Chequers. “Everyone is in the back. I daresay we’ve been blessed with lovely weather, haven’t we, Arthur?”   
  
“Indeed,” England said quietly, keeping his face forward and walking beside the woman and refusing to look back at the two Americans. It was a cooler day in April, but threatening a rise in temperature. The sun had come out for the first time in weeks, however.   
  
Alfred let a few paces fall between himself and the two in front of him. Winant noticed and slowed his pace as well, looking down at his country. “Churchill,” Alfred said quietly. “So she’s…?”  
  
“The Prime Minister’s wife, and our hostess for the weekend,” Winant told him, equally as quietly.   
  
Clementine up ahead was opening the double doors onto a wide veranda. Alfred watched England walk through and a booming voice greet him. And that was the first Alfred ever saw of the prime minister outside of the public eye. He grasped England firmly by the hand and shook it vigorously, and then was quickly distracted by a secretary, flitting by to ask for his opinion on something she held in her hands. Alfred found his pace slowing, and the ambassador walked ahead of him and into the open light. He was greeted by Churchill as well.   
  
Alfred hesitated. It wasn’t that he was unsure or uncertain. He just wanted to go home. He didn’t want to be here. He knew that, as badly as England was trying to use him, Churchill would undoubtedly be much worse and use him for his own ends and means. And Alfred did not take kindly to the thought of being used. But even if Winant was using him, too, there was nothing he could do about it.   
  
“So where is this country of yours?” Churchill demanded to know, his rounded face crinkling into an expectant smile. He puffed on his cigar for a moment, and then caught sight of Alfred. His face lit up. “Aaah, there he is.”   
  
Alfred emerged from Chequers and onto the veranda. It was a breathtaking sight—Alfred could see the hills even closer than before, the long expanse of lawn and gardens. Some people were playing croquet, others were walking in the garden, and others still were sitting at a table Churchill had risen from.   
  
He didn’t have much time to admire the scenery, however, before the prime minister was grasping his hand in an iron-grip. “You’re a very hard man to get hold of,” Churchill said with only a hint towards the prime minister’s well-known frustrations at the United States’ lack of involvement in the war, something Alfred was already well aware of in England’s attitude and did not wish to repeat, “But here you are, at last. Welcome, welcome to my home.”   
  
“It’s nice to meet you,” Alfred said politely, and when Winant gave him a slight nod Alfred remembered to add, “Mister Prime Minister.”   
  
It seemed that Churchill was in a conciliatory mood instead of befitting the bulldog belligerence for which he was famed. Alfred was thankful for that, at least.   
  
“You’re a shy one. Arthur! You never told me the man was shy,” Churchill boomed, releasing Alfred’s hand and puffing on his cigar as he turned to the other country. England straightened up, eyes widened in his surprise at being addressed so suddenly.   
  
“I’m not shy,” Alfred protested, shooting a glance at England, who was frowning so spectacularly it was a wonder his face hadn’t frozen that way yet.   
  
“Mister Prime Minister…” England began.   
  
“And now we must talk policy,” Churchill said with such sure diligence that Alfred found himself rather overwhelmed.   
  
“This weekend is meant for relaxation,” Clementine Churchill said. “And he hasn’t met with everyone yet, and—”  
  
“Give the poor man a chance to adapt, he looks petrified,” Averell Harriman said with a loud laugh from where he was sitting at the table.   
  
Churchill was only half-listening, his entire attention on Alfred now: “Never mind, never mind. Alfred, do you play bezique? Come play a round with me.”  
  
Before Alfred could protest and say he had no idea what bezique was, Alfred found himself being dragged towards the table. Before Alfred quite knew what was happening, he was given a chair. Alfred stared hopelessly down at his cards, but the game didn’t become more illuminating, even as he began to play and realized it was just one-on-one with himself and Churchill. He hoped to God that Churchill wouldn’t really start to talk policy with him.   
  
“You’ll get it eventually,” Harriman said after a few minutes of Alfred hopelessly floundering about, with a smile and tone that really suggested that Alfred _wouldn’t._   
  
Churchill flipped a seven of diamonds. “Diamonds trump. And ten points for me.”  
  
Alfred didn’t have any idea what he was doing, but it seemed Churchill enjoyed this. Alfred placed down another diamonds card, as this seemed the most logical way to go. Churchill swept in with a king of diamonds and named off gleefully the points he got to Clementine, who Alfred now saw was recording the scores down. The game only descended from there and all the while Alfred looked longingly towards the towering hills in the backdrop or towards the gardens.   
  
“So, tell me, Mister United States,” Churchill said as he flipped over another card and won yet another trick. Alfred felt his back stiffen a little and he stared down at his cards to prevent himself from staring at Winant for help. The Prime Minister continued, “Why do you think the Anglo-American relationship is so stilted?”   
  
“Um,” Alfred said, and then remembered to put his own card down. Churchill frowned to his own cards and put down a card with a lesser value than Alfred—and thus Alfred won his first trick. “It’s,” he said, slowly, “complicated. I think.”   
  
“I have a word or two I want to say about those naval ships—”  
  
“Papa,” interrupted one of Churchill’s children—Alfred wasn’t sure of her name—“This weekend is meant for relaxation, Mama says.”   
  
Churchill puffed on his cigar for a moment, looking up at the woman and only tearing his eyes away to flip down a card and win a trick again. Alfred really was never going to understand any of these games.  
  
“Very well,” he said. Alfred breathed a quiet sigh of relief and an even quieter thank you to the unknown Churchill child, who smiled at him and walked away to speak to her mother.   
  
Once Alfred was thoroughly destroyed at the game he never really did pick up, Alfred was free to leave the table. Or, more like he waited until a secretary scurried up to the prime minister to request some kind of signature or reaction to something or another, and Alfred got up to hurry away before anyone could stop him.   
  
He heaved a sigh and rested a short ways away, sitting on a bench and watching a few members of Churchill’s family play croquet on the manicured lawn. Soon after he saw Harriman walk down to pick up his own in the game, smiling at the woman almost fondly as they played. Alfred watched them in silence for some time, taking in all the sights of Chequers. He watched the woman ask him a series of questions, or at least talk to Harriman in rapid fire, listened raptly to the man’s responses, and laughed appropriately.   
  
“It’s like a mating dance,” Alfred said to himself.   
  
“I _beg_ your pardon,” a voice said behind him and Alfred whipped his head around to see England approaching him, arms crossed. “You’d better not be speaking ill of Pamela.”   
  
“Nothing, no way,” Alfred said, turning his back on the croquet game. He grinned. “What are you doing over here?”  
  
“The Prime Minister thought you looked too unoccupied,” England said, not looking at Alfred, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He stood, stiff as a rod, and looking so overwhelmingly militaristic and determined, Alfred was reminded of all those times England stood tall in the face of battle. It was almost depressing, considering the weekend visit was meant to relax people, according to Winant and everyone who wasn’t Churchill—but then again, it seemed England never relaxed.   
  
“Oh,” Alfred said. “He wants to renew the Anglo-American relationship right here and now, huh?”   
  
England didn’t seem to find this funny and Alfred shifted a bit uncomfortably. He stood up, feeling too small just sitting there and staring up at England. The height difference wasn’t that horrible between them, but the war had its toll on England—he looked much smaller, much thinner, much paler than he ever had before. At least, Alfred thought so.   
  
They stood in silence, and once England refused to say anything more on the subject, Alfred turned his face away, returning his attention to the croquet game, where Pamela Churchill was still laughing at something Harriman had said.   
  
“Renew,” England said with a snort. “As if there is anything to renew.”   
  
England walked past Alfred, standing at the railing overlooking the lawn below, watching the croquet game as if it was the most exciting thing he’d ever seen in the world, so exciting he couldn’t possibly tear his eyes away. Alfred sniffed, his frown deepening, and walking up to stand beside England. He wasn’t sure what to say to that, but it made the will to disagree boil in his gut, the urge to just start shouting at him or telling him off. But he didn’t. He bit his tongue. The last thing he wanted was to start fighting in front of everyone—it was worse enough when he did it in front of Winant. He didn’t want to think what would happen if he fought with England in front of Churchill.   
  
And so he laughed, loudly, three loud guffaws. “Sure there is! Just probably not what he wants renewed!”   
  
England gave him a withering look, his expression darkening. Alfred continued to laugh, for lack of anything better to do.   
  
“Why you little—!” England said, and looked about ready to throw aside any attempts by Alfred to avoid a confrontation.   
  
“It wouldn’t do for you to beat up on our guest, Arthur,” a distinctly woman’s voice said behind the two. The two countries whipped around to see Pamela Churchill standing there, laughing.   
  
Arthur tipped his chin up, regal. “Mrs. Churchill.”   
  
“Oh come now,” Pamela said with a laugh. “How many times will it take before you call me Pamela? A woman as young as me shouldn’t be called ‘Mrs.’ so often.” She turned her attention towards Alfred and smiled, stepping forward and extending her hand. “You’re Mister Alfred Jones.”   
  
“Hello,” Alfred said, stepping away happily from England and focusing on the much prettier and pleasanter of company.   
  
“Do you mind terribly if I steal him away from you, Arthur?” Pamela asked, laughing still. “I want to show him the gardens.”   
  
“He’s hardly something you can ‘steal’ from me,” England muttered, face twisting up in distaste as he turned away and walked towards the bench Alfred had previously vacated. He sat himself down. “I couldn’t care less what you do with him.”   
  
“So haughty!” she said with a laugh, and then smiled up at Alfred. “Shall we?”  
  
Alfred was more than happy to leave the grumpy nation, and the impending argument, behind.   
  
The two of them walked through the gardens in relative peace. Pamela was incredibly interested in people, it appeared, as she continually pumped him for information on the embassy, on life in the United States, on Alfred himself. He answered as best he could, omitting things he felt weren’t necessary for her to know, or he might get in trouble for relaying. He wasn’t sure just how involved Pamela was, and took great pains not to betray anything too secretive.   
  
“Tell me,” Pamela said once their conversational politics melted away, “How do you enjoy England so far?”   
  
“Um,” Alfred said. He started to blush.   
  
“And London,” she added.   
  
So she’d meant the country, not the man. Alfred shrugged one shoulder.   
  
Pamela was insistent. “Go on, tell me.”   
  
“… It seems kind of dull,” Alfred said at last, not knowing how to hedge his words and not wanting to lie, either. But she didn’t seem insulted by his honesty.   
  
Pamela smiled, and then laughed as if Alfred had said something particularly funny. “You just aren’t looking in the right places, Mister Jones.”   
  
Alfred shrugged one shoulder, unsure what she could mean and sincerely doubting that any part of London could not be dull and dreary to look at, and make him have to wrestle with guilt he shouldn’t have to feel at all.   
  
“There is a diffused gallantry in the air in London. An unmarriedness,” Pamela said with a quiet smile. She walked around a corner of a rose bush and Alfred followed her, moving through the gardens and the trees. “It can be rumored about the country that everybody in London is in love.”   
  
“What?” Alfred asked, and almost started to laugh until he realized that Pamela was serious.  
  
“Perhaps you’ll think it only romantic fatalism and hedonism,” she said, and did laugh this time, though a certain gravity did not leave her eyes. “But it is intoxicating all the same. You just haven’t found the hotels and nightclubs, pubs and palaces, situation rooms and bedrooms.”   
  
“I’m not really…” Alfred began weakly, feeling his cheeks heat up.  
  
“Once you find it,” Pamela interrupted with a wave of her hand. “You’ll become intoxicated as well.” She brushed her hair back away from her face and glanced up towards Chequers, where the rest of the party was still going on. Alfred turned his head to see her looking somewhere between Churchill, Harriman, and Winant. “And once you find it,” she repeated, softer this time, her eyes glittering, “perhaps you Americans will never leave.”  
  
Alfred’s eyes looked over at the other Americans on the property—Winant was speaking with Clementine, and Harriman to Churchill. Alfred watched them for a long moment, contemplating Pamela’s words. And then his gaze shifted. His eyes found England, sitting alone now where he’d left him. Alfred quickly turned his eyes away and back to Pamela. He couldn’t think of what to say, so he said nothing.  
  
Pamela smiled and tilted her head after a moment, regarding Alfred with more scrutiny than he particularly liked.   
  
“What do you think of them?” Pamela asked, undoubtedly seeing where Alfred’s eyes had been before. “You spend most of your time with Gil, don’t you?”   
  
“I stay at the embassy, yeah,” Alfred agreed, feeling much like an insect under inspection again. He swallowed and adjusted his collar after a moment. “He’s… a good guy.”  
  
Pamela snorted. “What a shining endorsement, Mister Jones!”   
  
“Well…” Alfred trailed off, blushing.  
  
“You shouldn’t say it with such lackluster benevolence. You should say the truth, say what you feel from the depth of your heart. Be honest.”  
  
Alfred gave her a hopeless look and she simply raised her eyebrows.  
  
“Well, I think Gil really has such an ability to make everyone he meets feel like the most important individual on the earth,” Pamela said, and Alfred nodded, not from politeness but from genuine agreement. Pamela smiled. “He’s a quiet man with intensely concentrated charm. Occasionally awkward and shy, though.”   
  
“Yeah,” Alfred said, and felt his lips quirk into a soft smile.   
  
“His optimism has done a lot for our country,” Pamela said. “Already, in so short a time. It’s remarkable.”   
  
“Yeah,” Alfred said again, still feeling awkward walking with the prime minister’s daughter-in-law as if they were old friends. “When he enters the room… everyone somehow feels better.”   
  
“Yes,” Pamela agreed, and laughed. “So you _can_ say more than two words. You really are shy.”   
  
“I’m just…” Alfred began to protest, and frowned. He _wasn’t_ shy. Back home, it took a lot of pains to shut him up, usually. But here—he was still feeling too uncertain, too morose to really step into himself. He found that he was still counting down the moments until he could go home.   
  
“Perhaps you’ve been spending too much time with Gil,” Pamela said with a laugh. “Not even the United States of America can resist the ambassador’s charms, it seems.”   
  
“Er,” Alfred said, and then laughed. “I guess not.”  
  
“There’s one person, though,” Pamela said, the gravity returning to her eyes, “who can.”  
  
“Who?” Alfred asked, surprised. He’d been under the impression that everyone loved his ambassador and enjoyed his company.   
  
Pamela nodded her head up, looking towards the party of people up on the veranda. Alfred followed her gaze, frowning.   
  
“The Prime Minister?” Alfred asked at last, hardly believing it. Churchill was still in a lively talk with Harriman, gesturing madly to some papers he held in his hands, cigar smoking and balanced between his teeth as he spoke in rapid fire to the Lend-Lease representative.   
  
“That isn’t to say he doesn’t like Gil,” Pamela said. “He admires and respects him, and adores his optimism and what he’s doing for the country. But… I daresay Gil makes him uncomfortable.”   
  
Alfred stared in surprise at the prime minister for a moment before turning his attention back to the woman. She was smiling at him, a soft, mysterious smile that Alfred found made him a little weak in the knees.   
  
“He much prefers Averell’s company,” she said. “While Gil may be very charming, he is not a _bounder_ , is he? He lacks a certain tart cleverness and quick wit.”   
  
Alfred didn’t say anything. Pamela’s eyes had shifted to Harriman now, watching the two men speak together.   
  
“There’s something to be said about such things, I suppose,” Pamela continued when Alfred did not say anything. “Being clever is very important. But so is genuine intelligence. Sympathy and strength of mind. Perhaps a bit of stubbornness.”   
  
Alfred nodded absently. His eyes glanced up towards England, who was still sitting in the same spot, back to Alfred. Pamela followed his eyes. She stepped up beside him, and when Alfred looked to her, he saw her smiling—almost fondly. Alfred felt his face flush red and he looked away from her—and back up towards England.   
  
“Ah,” she said, knowingly, and Alfred felt his face heat up further at the implications in so simple an exhalation, “but I’ve kept you long enough, haven’t I? Please excuse me.”   
  
Before Alfred could protest, Pamela had taken her leave, walking away and leaving Alfred alone.   
  
England sat with his back straight, hands in his lap, and looking off somewhere away from the rest of the Chequers’ guests. Alfred realized, distantly, that his face was turned southeast, back towards London. There was no change in England’s posture, and he did not turn his face away, the entire time Alfred found himself looking up at England from the garden. His suit hung off him as if he was a hanger, and Alfred felt himself frown, despite himself. England’s eyes, pointed towards London, a city in pain, and never letting on to any of it. But even from that distance, Alfred could see a deep scar bending its way out of England’s collar and into his hair.   
  
Alfred looked up at England for a long moment. He was still looking towards the direct of London.   
  
“England,” Alfred shouted out, and watched as the said country jumped in surprise and twisted around.   
  
“What in blazes do you want?” he asked, miffed at the interruption and his startled reaction to it.  
  
“Walk with me,” Alfred commanded.   
  
“Don’t tell me what to do!” England snapped.   
  
“I want to walk up the hills, but if I get lost it’ll be really bad, so you gotta walk with me to show me the way,” Alfred protested.   
  
England’s brow furrowed and he looked as if he would protest. Then he closed his eyes, sighed out through his teeth, and hissed out a loud, “ _Fine._ If I must.”   
  
Alfred beamed and waited for England to walk down the steps of the veranda to meet him.   
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**   
  
\- [Rationing during wartime](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rationing_in_the_United_Kingdom).   
  
\- [Barrage balloons](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barrage_balloons) and sandbags and barbed wire shielding Parliament, 10 Downing Street, and other government buildings showed the trappings of war everywhere.  
  
\- _“And what good does that do me when they leave my city but the thousands at the first sign of war?”_ After Britain’s reluctant declaration of war more than a million people, rich and poor alike, were evacuated from their homes or left voluntarily, marking the largest migrating in Britain since the Great Plague of 1665. Houses were shut up, families separated, careers abandoned, schools and businesses closed. Ambassador Kennedy advised all USAmericans in England to leave the country as soon as possible. More than ten thousand US citizens departed as fast as ships could carry them—half of them within forty-eight hours of the declaration of war.   
  
\- [Chequers](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chequers) is the country estate to the Prime Minister of Great Britain. During nights of clear full moons, however, instead of visiting Chequers which would have been a horrible target for bombs, the Churchills would spend their weekends in [Ditchley.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ditchley)   
  
\- People mentioned in this chapter: [Winston Churchill](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winston_churchill), [Clementine Churchill](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clementine_Churchill) (Churchill’s wife), [Pamela Churchill](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pamela_Churchill) (Churchill’s daughter-in-law), and [Averell Harriman](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Averell_Harriman) (American Lend-Lease representative).   
  
\- Life was always very hectic at Chequers, despite the fact that Clementine Churchill wishes. Everything centered around Churchill.   
  
\- Churchill’s frustrations with the US were well known in his inner circles, but despite that he was often conciliatory towards the Americans he kept in his confidence—namely Harriman, Winant, and Hopkins—and didn’t often portray his famous “bulldog belligerence”.   
  
\- [Bezique](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bezique) was Churchill’s favorite card game and often played it with guests.   
  
\- _“There is a diffused gallantry in the air in London. An unmarriedness. It can be rumored about the country that everybody in London is in love.”_ During wartime, there was a kind of freedom among the British people. Knowing that demise could be right around the corner meant all rules of decorum and propriety were often neglected, leading to many one-night stands, affairs, and loosened sexual morality. Not even the Churchills could avoid such frivolity. Harriman and Pamela Churchill had a long-standing affair. And Winant and Churchill’s second daughter [Sarah Churchill](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarah_Churchill_%28actress%29) had an affair.   
  
\- Pamela’s words on Winant are all from letters and journals. Winant was a charming man. One person who remained untouched by Winant’s charms, however, was the prime minister. It wasn’t that Churchill dislike Winant—he just preferred others more, and found Winant’s awkwardness uncomfortable. Churchill found more confidence in Harriman, and often left Winant out of British policies and ideas. This isolation from both the prime minister and the lack of communication from the US often left Winant feeling lost and directionless.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bombs return to London, and Alfred is left to wonder just where England has gone.
> 
> Time stamp: April of 1941.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of the content of this chapter there is a TRIGGER WARNING for depictions of war and death. I don't think it's anything TOO graphic, but better safe than sorry!

It began a beautiful day.   
  
So beautiful that Alfred was content to leave the city limits once his daily work was finished—simple work, helping Winant and the others around the embassy. Mostly filing and organizing—things he wasn’t the best at. But he didn’t mind it. It at least gave him something to do. It was better than sitting around, bored and lost and lonely. (Though he never admitted to that last one.)   
  
But as the late afternoon waned to early evening, he let himself give into the wanderlust. He allowed himself to leave sight of Grosvenor Square and even went beyond the scope of Hyde Park. He walked for hours, avoiding the main streets and the automobiles, the merchants and the pedestrians. He spent his evening nomadically, his thoughts drifting and wandering and never steadying for longer than a moment.   
  
It seemed, at least, as if the cold winter was finally leaving the city, creeping and unwinding itself from the cracks and crevices of the city. The streets that evening were crowded with other London residents basking in the glorious weather—the warm and sunny weather that suggested the beginnings of spring and the endings of winter. The bitter winter was over at last, and daffodils and hyacinths were blooming everywhere.   
  
Alfred wandered beyond the city limits, out along faded grass fields, hands stuffed into the pockets of his bomber jacket. He could see the way the people smiled to themselves as they passed him, either taking him no mind or nodding their heads kindly whenever their eyes locked. But it seemed as if the people were in higher spirits than before. The bags under their eyes were no longer as pronounced, the bloodshot eyes finally able to rest at night. It’d been over a month since the last raid on the city, and the Londoners seemed to have lost, at least a little, the endlessly haunted look. They no longer looked as ghastly, as tired, as haunted. They almost looked happy, Alfred dared to think.  
  
The new rejuvenation in their faces didn’t seem to suit the destroyed city, though. And it was with that thought that Alfred padded along an empty road outside the buildings of London, looking out at the way the wind wavered the grass. He was far from being in “wilderness” but at least his surroundings did not seem so painfully urbane. He wondered if maybe he’d see a dogfight between a Spitfire and a Messerschmitt. At least it’d give him something to talk about.   
  
He kicked at some of the pebbles lining the roadway. They skidded across the ground before bouncing away into the ditch.   
  
He passed a farmer’s cart on his walk and bought an apple from the farmer—grizzly with an unshaved beard—before continuing his walk. It’d been a long time since he’d had one, really, and he bit into it with relish. It was crisp and sweet, and Alfred savored it as he walked, tumbling off the road and tripping into the grassy field, searching out a dry patch where he could lie down and search the sky and watch the waverings of the taller grass.   
  
Once he found the desired patch of grass, he spent a short time looking out over the scenery, crunching into his apple and tasting the sweet fruit against his tongue. He sighed, sinking against the ground and staring up at the sky, still searching for that dogfight as the sun started to sink down towards the west. He chewed at his apple, glasses slipping down his nose until he stubbornly pushed them back up again. All and all, it was shaping up to be a normal, relatively peaceful day. He was want for nothing, save for the general desire to return home or to be surrounded by his people again—feeling that unconstrained, unconditional love.   
  
Once his apple was nothing more than a core, he tossed it away and leaned back, arms tucked behind his head. He stared up at the sky, counting the clouds and seeing the shapes—one of them looked like a rabbit if he tilted his head to the side just right. In this simple moment, the war seemed so far away. For half a moment, he felt like he was home again. It was truly no longer winter. The people he’d seen today actually appeared happy. Winant’s family had come to visit. He could smell pollen and spring on the air. The flowers were starting to bloom again, the sun was starting to shine. He could hear other Londoners far off in other corners of this tiny world, along the road, far away in taller grass. It seemed as if the day could have no downfall.   
  
But soon the buzz of insects—so absent this past month—dimmed. Alfred tilted his head back, frowning, as he heard a new sound. It sounded oddly familiar, but still far away.   
  
And then he recognized it, his eyes widening. Engines.   
  
He sat up in time to watch the sky fill with wave after wave of swastika-emblazoned bombers. He heard the harsh throb of aircraft engines as the planes curled across the darkening sky, following the curve of the Thames, aiming straight for London. His stomach coiled and suddenly the day did not feel so warm. He felt the ice in his veins, knew his face must be pale as he heard the scream of shrapnel from antiaircraft guns raining down around him.   
  
He scrambled to his feet, arms curled over his head and his chin tucked to his chest as he ran. He dove into the ditch, covering his head again and staying there, eyes wide as he heard the hum of the planes. He tilted his head again, and watched the seemingly endless procession of enemy aircraft fly northward, towards London. The only sounds he heard now were sounds of war.   
  
Within minutes, the sky over the capital was suffused with a fiery red glow, black smoke billowing upwards.   
  
Alfred watched in stunned silence as the fire and smoke blossomed across the horizon. His throat felt too dry, his eyes widened.   
  
London was burning.   
  
And as he realized this thought he realized too that _England_ must be burning. Before he could quite acknowledge it, before he could quite understand it, he was springing from the ditch and running as quickly as his legs could carry him.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
 _Shit, shit, shit!_ was Alfred’s litany as he ran through the burning streets of London. He had absolutely no idea where England would even be in this fray, and he had no idea where to begin looking. The obvious choices were some of the governmental buildings, but what if England was at his own home or what if he was out of the city entirely? Somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a berating going on about _caring_ but Alfred was more inclined to ignore that and focus instead of figuring out what he was doing and where he was going.  
  
Above him he could hear the muffled sounds of explosions. The banshee cry of sirens deafened everything around him that wasn’t the distant throb of aircraft engines or the explosions in the south. Night had fallen, though, and there were no lights in London. The only source of light came from the clear night sky, shadowed by the billowing smoke and the fiery blossoms of flames and explosions.   
  
Not knowing where to find England, Alfred’s feet ran the familiar arteries of streets back towards Grosvenor Square. The sirens continued to howl, and when Alfred reached the embassy, he felt his lungs wheeze from the lack of air, from inhaling the thick dust and smoke. He slumped against the door for half a moment before slamming his way in. He heard coughing and the distance shuffle of feet trying to sort out everything—the sirens’ cries screeched through the empty rooms and Alfred ignored the distant throb of aircraft, the muffled sound of explosions beyond his scope of vision.   
  
Alfred entered the embassy, shouting out for the ambassador and his aides, but just as soon as he stepped inside he heard the ear-splitting drone of planes directly overhead—what sounded like hundreds of them—and a thunderous barrage of antiaircraft guns. His ears were ringing but he could still hear the ominous sounds, the freight-train whistle of the bomb that seemed aimed straight for his own head. He heard the rapidly approaching bomb blasts. He heard the scream of a bomb and a massive explosion—  
  
Followed by the crash of breaking glass—and the force of the bomb knocking Alfred off his feet. He skidded across the floor for a few paces before he curled into a ball. All the windows in the embassy shattered inward, showering the floor in shards of sharp glass. Alfred ducked his head, covering his arms over his neck and the back of his head, clenching his eyes shut tight. He stayed like that, slowly trying to calm himself down even though his mind and his heart raced a million miles a minute, his ears ringing loudly as he slowly picked himself off the floor in time to watch the US embassy workers rushing past him, one pausing to help Alfred to his feet before darting away. One of them shouted out that the ambassador was on the roof, and Alfred took off in search of him.   
  
He found Winant on the roof, just as the aide said. He pushed his way onto the roof, his breath short and his body taut and tense. He looked around, ran across the roof, where the ambassador stood with two aides and his wife. Alfred ran up to his side.  
  
“Ambassador!” he cried out in greeting, breathless and fatigued already. He’d never been in a city during bombing—he’d seen war, he’d known bombs. But never among civilians.   
  
The ambassador turned, and his face flooded with relief. “Alfred—you’re alright. You’re—”  
  
“Are you well?” Alfred interrupted. “Are you hurt?”   
  
Winant shook his head quickly, and his eyes swiftly turned towards the vacant Italian embassy next door, blasted out with an incendiary bomb that had set it ablaze. The rush of embassy workers Alfred had seen before were now struggling to put the fires out. Alfred stared at the burning embassy, in some kind of numb shock, before turning his gaze away to survey the rest of the damage around them. Across the street, one of the Georgian townhouses was completely demolished, and the windows of John Adam’s old residence were blasted out completely, much like the embassy Alfred now stood atop of. It hurt him, down in his gut, to see even a small fraction of his history destroyed—to see one simple house. He could not think of how England—he halted his thoughts. On nearby Oxford Street, Alfred saw the licks of flames devouring a department store.   
  
Alfred’s eyes scanned the city, but in the darkness he could not see far at all, and when he tipped his head upward, all he could see were the occasional shadows blotting out the stars and moon—but he knew the planes were there, even should he be blind. No one could ignore the tearing sound of chopping air. No one could ignore the scream of bombs all around them, the shredding and ripping of the city. The city was blazing with light: flares bursting like Roman candles, searchlights crisscrossing the heavens, and fires blossoming everywhere like the new spring flowers—fire red and licking at the sky until it burned into the smoke-fog.   
  
The raid continued. Alfred stood in quiet shock on the embassy’s roof, eyes widened and drinking in all the sights and sounds of war, of bombings, of pain. He had thought himself distant, distinct, from the war. He had thought himself uninvolved.   
  
He was plunged into it, now.   
  
“Shit,” Alfred breathed as he squinted out into the darkness, peppered with flames across the battered rooftops. His words disappeared under the scream of the sirens, and the ambassador was too busy speaking with his aides and staring out over the carnage. Winant’s wife stood in quiet shock, saying nothing, her expression a crippling, pained shadow that must have mirrored Alfred’s own face.   
  
“I must head out,” Winant said after a stark moment of harshly spoken words and distant bombings. Alfred whipped his head up and stared at him in shock. His immediate reaction was to protest, to discourage.   
  
“You—” he began, but could not find the words, could not find the will to discourage Winant, to tell him to stop, to leave these people to their own war. He knew Winant would not listen. He knew that he did not want Winant to listen.   
  
“I must take stock of the damage,” Winant said, his voice almost lost over the banshee scream of sirens. He moved towards the exit, intending to get down to the street level and set out.  
  
“… I’ll go with you,” Alfred said at once, rushing to the ambassador’s side as he turned away to retreat.  
  
The ambassador said nothing—though there was a touch of something in his eyes—and merely nodded his goodbye to his wife and the two aides before leading the way down into the embassy and out towards the street. Alfred followed behind him, watched Winant shrug into his coat as he walked and placed his battered felt hat atop his head. Alfred buttoned up his own jacket, hurrying up to walk beside Winant instead of behind him. Winant moved like a man possessed, taking no heed to the crunch of bombs in the distance and the shrapnel crackling down around them as they walked their way from the square and out into the fray of turmoil and chaos. The smoke and dust were growing thicker, and presently the distant curls of flames disappeared from Alfred’s view, the fog thickening to the point where they could only see a few feet before them.   
  
Alfred and the ambassador did not speak, as Winant was too preoccupied with finding anyone who may need help. Alfred kept his eyes peeled for anyone. They walked for miles in stilted silence, strained expectation.   
  
They passed the smoking ruins of a building just as some young nurses were carrying out the bodies of other nurses. The living nurses who dragged and carried the dead were not weeping, but rather their faces were set in grim determination to line the young, dead women out. There was a haunted kind of calmness in their eyes, as they cast down their fallen sisters, slipping their hands over their eyelids to make sure they remained shut, before standing up with quiet fortitude and striding back into the rubble, searching out the others—searching for any survivors and yet knowing there would be none.   
  
The ambassador and Alfred hurried over to them, Winant speaking in an uncustomary quick manner: “Is there any help I can give you?”   
  
Some of the women seemed to recognize him, while the others did not. But they merely shook their heads as the last nurses emerged, helping carry over the last dead body. Alfred rushed over to them and wordlessly took the limp woman in his arms, holding her and carrying her to the row of dead women. She felt far too light in his arms. Slowly, feeling the sense of dread pool cruelly in the pit of his stomach, Alfred set the woman down—she was young. She was so small. She was so light. They were all too young for this.   
  
Alfred stood over the women, watching them silently, as Winant helped distribute bandages to the injured women. Alfred stared down at the women—all lined in a row, as if sleeping, as if dreaming. Some of them looked pained, others looked peaceful. But none of them would make it home again.   
  
His entire body felt too cold, and he had to look away. He blinked a few times, his breath coming in a stuttering gasp. He had to calm down, but he felt every nerve ending screaming at him to run away or to run somewhere. To go anywhere. To find his landing place—to make it home again. But there was another, equally as loud impulse—the impulse to stay there, to help anyone he could lay his eyes on. He couldn’t run away anymore. He wouldn’t run away anymore.   
  
Eventually, he and Winant walked on, once satisfied that the women were as cared for as they could be, in the situation. They visited the packed shelters as they passed, and again and again Winant asked if there was anything he could do for the survivors. Again, they refused politely, calmly and with the quiet grit of a nation falling apart from the top but with the foundation remaining unshaken.   
  
“Mister Ambassador should find shelter as well,” one of the survivors said with a small smile. “You’ll get lost in all this smoke.”  
  
Winant just shook his head.   
  
A young woman smiled up at Alfred when he handed her a cup of water. She cradled it, and smiled a low smile. “Thank you, sir.”   
  
Alfred’s throat felt dry. “It’s… only water. It’s nothing.”  
  
She drank the water down until it was halfway empty before handing the cup to her companion, slouched beside her, coughing feebly. Her mother, probably. She drank the rest of the water with a shaking hand, her daughter supporting her shoulders.   
  
“Thank you,” she said again, not looking at Alfred now.   
  
Alfred inhaled slowly, and nodded. “You’re welcome.”  
  
He turned away—had to turn away—and slid up to Winant’s side. Winant nodded to him, but did not pause to speak with him as he set about helping the other survivors inside the shelters. Bombs screamed nearby, but nothing nearby exploded into rubble or fire.   
  
They finished helping them in that shelter.   
  
So again, Winant and Alfred walked on. The bombs screamed around them, and there were a few narrow escapes where they had to duck into archways for the sake of bracing themselves against the blast of rushing wind, swirling the smoke and dust around them so that their lungs burned.   
  
Alfred lost track of how many miles they walked, how many shelters they visited, how many dead Alfred helped line up, closing their eyelids and wondering, beyond all hope, that whatever came after death for the humans, it was far more peaceful than this world.   
  
“Ambassador,” Alfred said, loudly, over the cry of sirens, turning away from the dead and looking the ambassador, who ushered along a young woman after securing some bandages on her hands for her. “Ambassador, where is—”  
  
He lost his words when Winant looked to him, his expression strained. Alfred stared at him for a moment, and then shook his head.   
  
The look the ambassador gave him was one of sympathy before he turned away and crossed the street, calling up to a fireman hosing down the charred remains of a building if there was anything he could do to assist him.   
  
Alfred stood alone, encased in the fog, and feeling his lungs constrict. He blinked his eyes a few times, inhaled sharply, and quickly crossed the street when he saw Winant guiding some dazed Londoners to sit down and help secure some bandages. Alfred wrapped the head of an older man, saying nothing, feeling crippled in his inability to say anything.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
They walked until dawn. Alfred did not know how far they’d walked. They did not stop until the all-clear siren sounded at five in the morning, following eight hours of continuous bombing through the course of the night.   
  
The sun was rising, and the day was now blue sky and sunshine, but only if one looked straight up. Straight-up above them, there were the familiar barrage balloons and the gentle, friendly blue sky. But at eye-level, there was only a pall of gray smoke and unsettled dust, the smell of charred buildings and shattered shrapnel.   
  
Alfred had spent the entire course of the night by Winant’s side, helping him as he helped the Londoners, waiting behind him as the ambassador asked every person they encountered if there was anything that he could do to help. Alfred had remained practically silent the entire night, and only grew quieter as the night wore on and threatened dawn. The sights and smells of the bombing cloaked the city.   
  
Firemen were hosing down the charred remains of buildings, and as Alfred and the ambassador walked back towards the embassy—weary and exhausted—Alfred watched as the Londoners whose homes were not destroyed (battered, charred, blasted out—but intact) walk outside with brooms and shovels, cleaning up the debris and shattered glass.   
  
Alfred watched them in silence, and felt his heart heave and strike at the back of his throat.  
  
“Ambassador—” he whispered, and despite the whisper, despite eight hours of ear-splitting noises, his whisper sounded far too loud. He swallowed thickly, and finally managed to heave out the words he’d avoided the entire night: “Where is England?”   
  
The ambassador stopped walking, and turned to look at Alfred. He, too, looked older than he had the day before. Bags hung under his eyes, and there were bits of debris clinging stubbornly to his clothes and shoulders.   
  
“Where is he?” Alfred repeated. “Where can I find him? Where is he?”   
  
Alfred wondered—dared to hope—that England had managed to leave the city, that he was out in the countryside. Where he would be, at least, a little safer.   
  
He told himself not to care.  
  
His voice rose a pitch as he repeated, insisted against the ambassador’s silence, “Where is he?”   
  
He was exhausted and drained, fatigued and weary—but he had to find England. He had to—  
  
He swallowed thickly.   
  
His heart thundered, battered against his ribcage in an insistent yet inconsistent song.   
  
“I have to find him,” Alfred shouted. “I have to see him—he can’t be… I. I have to find him. Ambassador, please—”  
  
The ambassador touched his shoulder. “I believe that… he is at the prime minister’s—”  
  
“Estate? Estate, right? Tell me he isn’t in London. Tell me he’s out of the city!”  
  
Winant stared at him, and then shook his head. “I cannot tell you that, Alfred, for it would not be the truth.”  
  
The bottom of Alfred’s stomach dropped away. His mind scrambled for wherever else the Prime Minister stayed. “Number Ten, then?”   
  
Winant nodded.   
  
Before Winant could say a word, before Alfred could even think to utter a reply, Alfred was breaking away from Winant and running in that direction—running as quickly as he’d ever run before. He wove between the fallen buildings, between the shovels of tired Londoners. He inhaled the thick, broken air, but did not stop. He was exhausted, he was weary, he felt as if he hadn’t slept in months—but still he ran. He did not know why he ran so desperately. He did not know why he ran without restraint, blindly, hurling his way towards a man he had sworn to never care for again—towards a man he was not meant to care for.   
  
But he refused to stop.   
  
He was running to find him, and did not think to understand why he did so. He only knew that he had to run quickly, only knew that he had to keep running. He ached. He ached all over his body, and he ached to find England and, yet, afraid of what he would find once he found him. Afraid of what he would find.   
  
He thought to himself that England had to be crying, that he had to be crushed, that he had to be crumbled and falling apart. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could stay firm in the face of such hardship, could not imagine that even someone like England could remain composed and calm. He could see him—slumped down into himself, tears coiling down his cheeks. He knew that look—he had seen it before. And he could not imagine that after such a night as this, that England would be okay, that he could stay strong.   
  
He had to find him.   
  
He refused to stop until he found England.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Alfred ran through emptying streets, skirting his way over the fence blocking the Prime Minister’s estate without encountering anyone. He managed to jump his way over the sandbags and barbed wire in front of 10 Downing without catching his leg and bleeding all over the prime minister’s front hall, at least, and that was something to be thankful for. Alfred crashed into the home, but his shout to England died in his throat as he stared around the dusty home. It had remained unharmed and intact—rattled, perhaps. The dust had managed to infiltrate every home in London, it seemed. Alfred stood in the foyer in stone silence, listening for any movements or sounds of life. He heard nothing. He stood in the small entrance hall for half a moment before rushing forward through the adjacent door.   
  
His heart hammering in his chest, Alfred rushed through the adjoining hallways, down the myriad of corridors and staircases, searching out where England could be. He checked the all the first-floor rooms first, expecting to see him collapsed and writhing in pain. When he could not find England, he searched every other room, searching every nook and cranny, every closet and corner, searching for England, keeping his ears peeled for weeping for sobbing for someone falling apart. It was eerily silent. It was painfully silent. And Alfred got lost in the long expanse of rooms a few times, flying into rooms he’d already entered before, getting lost on the grand staircase and crashing into rooms with little semblance of control and decorum befitting such a place. But Alfred did not care. He had to keep looking. He was on the verge of giving up, on deciding that maybe England was with the prime minister instead, maybe he was out of the city limits, maybe he was—  
  
And then he saw the trail of blood.   
  
And he froze.  
  
Feeling numb, feeling disconnected from his body, he moved without feeling, following the trail of blood through the silent hallways. He reached a bathroom and stared at the door, not shut entirely and opened just a crack, pooling distant light from windows across the threshold. He took in a deep breath, standing outside the door, lifting his hand to push it open all the way. But he hesitated. When he stood there, in silence and unmoving, he could hear the ragged breathing.   
  
Alfred touched at the door, and it slipped open entirely, revealing the cool floor covered in the slides of blood leading to the bathtub. Empty of water, England rested in it, eyes open and staring at the wall. He did not react—and Alfred thought, figured, that England did not yet know he was there.   
  
England stared at the wall with that same haunted look in his eyes which Alfred remembered from the first time he had seen England in the crowd, upon his first day coming to the country. England rested there, naked and bleeding and burned, staring at the wall. His head was tilted just slightly, green eyes staring in stone cold silence at the wall—seeing something far beyond it, or perhaps seeing nothing at all. The blood covered his body, one arm hanging out from the tub, fingertips just touching the ground, with blood pooling beneath him, dripping down one small drop by one small drop and curling towards the clawed feet of the bathtub.   
  
Alfred watched him in silence, watched England shudder in pain occasionally but otherwise unmoving. He did not blink. He did not move. The only sound was the ragged, inconsistent shudders of his body and shudders of his lungs as he remembered to breathe.   
  
And then Alfred watched England lick his lips and, finally, shift his eyes away from the wall and towards Alfred. He did not seem alarmed or indeed even surprised to see Alfred—and Alfred wondered just how long England _had_ realized he was there.   
  
His face was red only with blood, but his eyes were clear. He had not cried.   
  
He watched Alfred in silence for a moment, before he tipped his head back defiantly, regarding him in cool resignation. He scowled.   
  
“Do you _mind_?” he said, and though his voice was weakened, it still rang loud and clear in the empty bathroom.   
  
Alfred stepped into the bathroom. He crossed the space, his eyes averted towards the long strings of blood leading up to the stained bathtub, running red with the injuries obtained from the bombing. England continued to scowl, but either from resignation or fatigue, did not yell at Alfred to leave him be.   
  
Alfred knelt beside him, reaching out his hand and touching the flopped arm over the side of the tub. His hand smeared with blood as, slowly, Alfred raised the arm and tucked it back into the tub. He watched England relaxed, and realized that the arm must have caused him pain—but had been unable to move it on his own.   
  
England slumped, closing his eyes and sighing.   
  
“What are you doing here?” England asked, quietly.   
  
Alfred swallowed thickly. He could not speak, not just yet. England sighed, slowly, his eyebrows furrowing and knitting together.   
  
“Were… you hurt in the bombing?” England asked, quieter still—hesitant, as if unsure if he wanted to hear the answer or even ask the question in the first place.  
  
“Shut up,” Alfred snapped, and felt a sudden anger grip at his throat. “Shut—why the hell are you asking _me_ that? You’re the one bleeding all over the place.”   
  
England did not open his eyes, but his lips quirked up into a bitter smirk. His lip was split.   
  
“Indeed,” was all he said.   
  
Alfred again felt the flare of anger at the strange calmness England displayed. Alfred turned his face away, groping around for a towel. Standing, he went to the sink, wetting it until it was damp. He stared at the wall for a long moment, his expression grim. He caught his own look in the mirror before he turned away, but he could not manage a smile, he could not manage the assertion of indifference. He could not pretend. He could not run away.   
  
He knelt beside England, reaching out a hand and stroking the hair away from England’s face. It was caked with blood, sticking together and rigid beneath his touch. Alfred brushed hem aside insistently.  
  
England cracked his eyes open and stared at him warily, but did not retreat from the touch as Alfred stroked the hair away from his face. They stayed like that in silence, neither saying a word nor looking away from one another. Alfred stroked the towel across England’s face, starting the long, daunting task of cleaning the blood away. Some of the wounds were still open, but England did not seem overly concerned—or perhaps he was too tired to be concerned, at this point.   
  
“How…” England began, his voice cracking once before he seemed to change his mind, and fell silent. But Alfred was insistent.   
  
“What is it?” Alfred asked when England trailed off.  
  
England stayed quiet again, staring at Alfred with a grim expression. He studied Alfred’s face as Alfred continued to push the hair away from England’s forehead, trying to pull apart some of the dried blood from the dirty hair. His fingers worked tirelessly, carding through England’s hair, trying to clean away some of the blood. His hands were red now, too.   
  
And when England spoke, his words were quiet, betraying no emotion though the words were thick against his tongue: “How many of my people… died?”   
  
“… I don’t know,” Alfred said, feeling uncharacteristically sober and wishing, always wishing, to be able to turn his eyes away from this, to be able to tell himself he did not care. “I lined up a few of the dead, but… I don’t know.”  
  
England’s expression flickered, for just a moment, before he inhaled sharply. He shifted, turning his face away and staring at the wall. He blinked a few times, clearing his vision. But other than that brief moment of quiet vulnerability, he did not react.   
  
England remained calm. Alfred half expected him to break down. But he did not.   
  
“You’re…” Alfred began, and then sighed. “Should I take you to the hospital?”   
  
England’s expression flickered again, and this time his lips curled up into another smirk—with a quiet, ironic laugh. “No hospital can heal me, America. You should know that.”   
  
Alfred nodded mutely, feeling infinitely small beside England, feeling infinitely like a little child, alone and condescended to. England always made him feel this way—always made him feel like he was too young, too small, too unimportant. Like he was only tolerated, like he was a complete fool who had never seen the world before. Like there was nothing in the world that could teach him, not when he was next to someone who had lived hundreds of years longer than he had.   
  
Alfred stood. “I’ll get bandages.”   
  
He turned away and walked from the room.   
  
“There’s a supply closet down the hall,” he heard England call after him.   
  
Alfred made a beeline for it, searching around for a first aid kit—for anything. He found some iodine. He searched further and found cotton swabs and bandages.   
  
He returned to England, who had not moved. He stared at the wall with that haunted look again, though as he caught sight of Alfred out of the corner of his eye, he blinked his eyes and turned his head towards Alfred again, expression calm and grave—but he had pushed away the haunting, he had locked it away to visit only when he was alone. Alfred could not blame him for that, for the desire of silence and solitude in his vulnerability.   
  
Alfred kneeled beside him.   
  
“How do you feel?” Alfred asked.   
  
“Do you have to ask, my boy?” England said quietly, and sank further into the bathtub, head lolling to the side with a bitter snort of a laugh. “I suppose it was foolish of me to feel safer. It’d been such a long time since a major raid. I’d foolishly thought that…”  
  
“Stop talking if you’re going to be a regretful idiot about it,” Alfred commanded.  
  
“Fuck you,” England said, though without much venom. He closed his eyes again.   
  
“I have iodine.”   
  
Alfred watched England shudder, and was unsure if it was for the impending iodine or because of a distant bomb or the renewal of some distant pain caused by the previous night.   
  
“It’s going to sting,” Alfred said, cautiously, just in case England’s pain was for the latter and not the former.   
  
“Get on with it,” England hissed, gritting his teeth already.   
  
Alfred set down the bandages and twisted the cap of iodine, pushing the cotton swab to the top and pooling it in the swab. Setting down the bottle, he slowly pushed his arm beneath England’s back, feeling the sensitive, quivering flesh there, ripped open with wounds. England flinched and tensed up, but Alfred managed to weasel his arm back there and get England to a tentative sitting position.   
  
“Will you be able to stay like that?” Alfred asked, slowly.  
  
“I’m not a complete invalid, for fuck’s sake,” England muttered, turning his face away. He shifted to make himself more comfortable, his back curving and neck bowing. He said again, “Get on with it.”   
  
But Alfred did not get on with it. Not right away. He stared at England’s back—stared at the crisscross of scars and new wounds, rivulets of blood tumbling down the lines of his back.   
  
“Surely you have seen wounds before, boy,” England whispered. “Why do you dally?”  
  
Alfred didn’t have an immediate answer, so he just said, “Just taking stock. Hold your horses.”   
  
England did not say anything more. His body only slumped with his sigh.   
  
Alfred steadied his gaze and clenched his jaw. Then he leaned forward, swiping the cotton swab across the wound just below his neck. England tensed up at once with a quiet hiss, but did not cry out in pain as Alfred would have done. He stayed still as the dead, not moving again as Alfred curved the cotton swab down over England’s skin, wiping away the blood and cleaning the wounds.   
  
He worked in silence down England’s back, and if England was embarrassed by his nakedness, the loss of blood prevented him from blushing, and the fatigue of a night of bombings prevented him from voicing his modesty. So Alfred worked and cleaned his wounds, working his way down the curve of England’s spine, the cliff-faces of his shoulder blades, and the expanse of his sides, the curve of ribs.   
  
“Does it hurt?” Alfred asked.  
  
England didn’t answer, and Alfred took that for the affirmative. He did not flinch as Alfred worked through handfuls of cotton swabs, and with England’s face angled away from him, Alfred could not study his expression—but he could not imagine that he could be free from pain in these moments, after a night of bombings and not accosted with iodine.   
  
Alfred touched his skin, thinking to himself. There was something elegant about England, even in these moments. There was some kind of painful fortitude in the slope of his shoulders, in the slump of his face. There was an elegance, a beauty—something that Alfred almost envied. The poise, the discipline, even in the face of chaos cascading in front of his very eyes.   
  
He told himself that these things did not mean a thing to him. He reminded himself of not caring, but knew it was a foolish thought at this point—  
  
“You’re so fucking brave, England,” Alfred said before he could stop himself.  
  
England shifted, finally, turning his head to stare at Alfred over his shoulder. He watched him, and Alfred was wondering if he would say anything when, suddenly, England laughed. Laughed loudly, his eyebrows lifting as he laughed, as if what Alfred had just said was incredibly and terribly funny. As if he had said something incredibly hilarious. His eyes did not light up, but he laughed for a long while. He did not stop for several minutes and Alfred felt his brows furrowed, wondering if England was making fun of him.   
  
“Lad,” he said around his laughter, and then shook his head. He stopped the movement immediately when it upset a wound on his neck, however, and he just ducked his head—still laughing in that ironic, bitter way of his. He stayed like that for a short moment as the laughter died away. When he lifted his head again, he was just as calm before. He stared at Alfred, sober and looking straight into his eyes as he said, “Do you think we’re really that brave—or are we just lacking in imagination?”   
  
Alfred felt his mouth run dry. He blinked a few times at England, who, after a moment returned to looking cynically amused. He just tilted his head to the side and then sighed, closing his eyes. Again, Alfred was struck by the calm and stubborn nature displayed in both England and his people. It was something to be admired about them—  
  
They were steady. They didn’t panic. They didn’t get emotional.  
  
Alfred wondered what it would be like to be more like England. But he quickly banished those thoughts before he could linger on them for too long. He would rather die than be anything like England.   
  
“I…” Alfred began.  
  
“What is it?” England murmured.   
  
“God, I… I hope I’m never bombed,” Alfred said, staring down at England’s body.   
  
England did not respond right away.   
  
Alfred finished England’s back and shifted, lifting himself to sit on the lip of bathtub so he could lean over England and blot the cotton swabs at his chest. England did not move though he did blink his eyes open to stare at Alfred unwaveringly. Alfred refused to squirm, but he felt far too exposed under such an unrelenting gaze.   
  
“I hope not,” England said suddenly.  
  
“Hope what?” Alfred asked, confused.   
  
“I, too, hope you are never bombed,” England repeated.   
  
Alfred didn’t respond, feeling his entire body freeze up. But England was still gazing upon him, studying his every feature and movement.   
  
“Bandage me,” England said. “You’ve cleaned this area quite enough.”   
  
Alfred nodded mutely and scrambled to pick up the bandages. Slowly, he uncoiled the gauze and wrapped it around England’s chest, covering the scars and wounds slashed across his chest and his back. He slowly worked his way up, curling around his shoulders, his collarbone, his neck.   
  
Once he finished, he moved onto England’s arms, cleaning them with the same care as his back and chest. He held England’s hand, holding his arm outright and straight as he cleaned it. The blood dripped down Alfred’s own arms as he worked, and he took a moment to shrug out of his jacket and roll up the sleeves of his shirt. He seized England’s hand again, dead-weight in his arm.   
  
“It’s broken,” England said calmly, as way of explanation.  
  
Alfred nodded mutely, holding the arm more gently than before. He cleaned it slowly, gently. He stared down at England’s hand as he held it. The knuckles were braised and bruised, bleeding and knotted. Blood spilled over England’s fingertips and over the back of Alfred’s hand, along his wrist, down to the crook of his elbow and staining the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. It seemed as if every inch of England had split open again and started to bleed. Alfred swallowed thickly and worked tirelessly—though unsure why he treated England so gently, so tenderly. There was no reason for him to be there. He could have sent for one of England’s people to find him and care for him. He could have insisted on taking him to a hospital. But he knew better than to move England, in all honesty.   
  
He swallowed. “Why are you alone here, England?”   
  
“Undoubtedly the Prime Minister is in one of his bunkers near parliament,” England said quietly. “I happened to be here dropping off a few files for him. I’d planned to return to my home, but that’s when the sirens sounded.”   
  
“Were you alone the entire night?” Alfred asked, and hated how alarmed his voice sounded.   
  
England didn’t nod, but the way he sighed indicated the affirmation. Then he said, slowly, “It is better that way.”  
  
“Why is it bett—!”  
  
“Because I have grown quite used to being alone,” England said sharply. Then added, as if ashamed and deciding it needed the clarification, needed the reassurance that he was not lonely in the world: “In these situations.”   
  
“Oh,” Alfred said, quietly, feeling chastised and not quite sure why.   
  
Alfred worked in stilted silence after that, wrapping up England’s legs—after throwing a towel across his upper thighs for modesty’s sake. He worked from thigh down to his feet. He kept his eyes down, unable to raise them and look at England again.   
  
“How do you feel?” he asked, not taking his eyes away from England’s feet as he wrapped them up.   
  
“I’m exhausted,” England said quietly, voice thick with honesty. “I’m lucky if I get four hours of sleep a night.”  
  
“Every night?” Alfred asked, quietly.   
  
“Indeed,” England said.   
  
“You… never did sleep well during wartime,” Alfred said quietly, and instantly regretted turning his sights back towards the past.   
  
But England did not respond negatively, didn’t lecture him or curse him for bringing up the ghosts of the past. He merely hummed an affirmative response. “No. I daresay I never have.” Quietly, he continued: “It’s surprising, really, that we could have gone this long without a large bombing. Really… it’s a shame.” He breathed in and then out, his voice thick. “It’s a shame—that you have to see my country like this. It’s seen better days, hasn’t it?”  
  
Alfred didn’t answer, unsure how to respond. His heart was beating quickly and, slowly, he finished bandaging England and took his hands away from him, cleaning his bloody hands across his pants. He swallowed.  
  
“Better days…” Alfred repeated, frowning.  
  
“Hm. Though I… needn’t tell you that these are not our best days.” He laughed, bitterly. “You’re undoubtedly here to laugh at a tired old man, aren’t you?”   
  
“No,” is all Alfred said. And that single word said more than he ever thought possible.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**  
  
\- On April 16, 1941, the Blitz returned full-force, with a major raid on London throughout the night for eight continuous hours. An estimated 1,100 Londoners died, the most devastating night of the Blitz since its beginning thus far.   
  
\- Alfred’s experience is taken from different accounts, mostly based off Murrow’s and Winant’s experiences during that evening and night. Winant’s wife was indeed visiting from London, and they did indeed go up onto the roof of the embassy to survey the damage. Afterwards, Winant along with the embassy’s political attaché, Theodore Achilles (whom Alfred replaced in this chapter, unfortunately), headed out into the streets to take stock of the damage. Wherever he went, to help nurses, shelters, firemen, anyone he found—he would ask if there was anything he could do to help. He stayed out the entire night until the all-clear signal at 5 AM. Winant interacting directly with Londoners, being there with them and helping them through it, was a stark difference from Kennedy’s approach.   
  
\- Damage done to Grosvenor Square are as accurate as I could manage. The Italian embassy—empty—was bombed and caught on fire. Some of the townhouses were destroyed, and the old residency of John Adams had blasted out windows.  
  
\- Spitfire and a Messerschmitt were different kinds of fighter planes used during WWII, and would often fight outside the city limits of London, even during non-bombing nights.   
  
\- [10 Downing Street](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/10_Downing_Street) is the official residence of England’s Prime Minister. Winston Churchill had a great affection for “Number 10” (as it is colloquially called), but he did not sleep there during WWII, for his own safety. He grudgingly slept in the bunkered Annex of Number 10. To reassure the people that his government was functioning normally, however, he insisted on being seen entering and leaving Number 10 occasionally during wartime. There’s a cool [virtual tour](http://www.number10.gov.uk/) of 10 Downing, if you’ve never seen photos of it before.   
  
\- “Do you think we’re really brave—or just lacking in imagination?” is an actual quote (not from Arthur, obviously). It was said by Eric Sevareid, a friend of Murrow. Murrow himself, among many others throughout the word and within the US embassy, were struck by the calmness, fortitude, and ironic humor of the British during these times. Indeed, the citizens of London spent as much time as possibly in the war years carrying on as normally as possible—this was their way of “sticking their nose up” at Hitler.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fearing the country's morale and resolve, Churchill visits Bristol. Sensing the shift in that weakening morale, Alfred begins to doubt things once again, and call into question the past weeks.
> 
> Time stamp: April of 1941.

Alfred left England that morning only after he’d managed to get England into a bed and find a sling for his broken arm. England did not speak much as he did this, and he didn’t even thank Alfred for all his efforts. Alfred hadn’t really expected him to, anyway, and didn’t really blame him for withholding any thanks. Though he wouldn’t actually say that out loud to England, either. Instead, he maintained a cool silence that matched England’s own.   
  
But that cool silence broke once England sank onto the bed, sighing. “Aren’t your people missing you?”  
  
“Back home?” Alfred asked, taken aback by the question and looking up at England in surprise.   
  
“At the embassy,” England corrected, voice tired and quiet.   
  
“The ambassador knows that I came to find you,” Alfred said after a pause in which he debated not admitting to that. “He won’t worry.”   
  
England looked up at him. He studied Alfred’s face with quiet certainty, and Alfred felt unnerved. And yet he couldn’t look away, because that would be cowardly. So he held England’s gaze steadily, swallowing thickly. Their gazes held tight.   
  
“… Why did you come here?” England asked after a moment.   
  
“To find you?” Alfred asked, brows furrowing as he scrambled to think of an excuse.  
  
But England shook his head, slowly, still watching Alfred. “To my home. Why did you come here?”  
  
“I’ve told you before—”  
  
“And why have you not left yet?” England interrupted, question desperate. He didn’t sound dismissing or disgusted by it, or that he actually _wanted_ Alfred to leave. It was not that kind of question. But, rather, it was one that had obviously weighed on England’s mind for a very long time. He continued to stare up at Alfred, unrelenting, unashamed of such intense staring. “Why do you choose to stay here?”   
  
Alfred found that he didn’t quite have the answer. And he couldn’t think of one fast enough to get England to just stop looking at him. The question weighed on him— _Why was he still here at all?_   
  
To save some kind of face, Alfred snorted. “It’s just too much bother to navigate the Atlantic right now. I’m not here because I want to be or anything. I think the ambassador still hopes that he can use me to sway public opinion. Joke’s on him, though, ha ha ha…”  
  
His laughter died out as England continued to stare at him. The light touched his face, casting shadow across half his face, and the rest was bruised and scarred and bleeding. Alfred’s throat went dry.   
  
And finally England slanted his eyes away. “Of course. How foolish of me to believe otherwise.”   
  
The words hung in the air, hollow and lethal. Alfred couldn’t begin to parse them.   
  
“… Rest, old man. Staying up this late can’t be good for you.”  
  
A touch of a smile cracked at England’s chapped, split lips. “Hah. You obviously have far too much faith in my sleeping habits as is.”  
  
But he did lie back on the bed, eyes falling shut almost instantly. Alfred watched as he relaxed against the blankets, curling into himself—the fetal position.   
  
“… I’ll come again, if the bombs return,” Alfred said.  
  
Sleepily, England snorted. “Of course they will return. But don’t trouble yourself over something so foolish. You should focus on keeping yourself safe.”   
  
His voice seemed to fade, and Alfred knew it was only a matter of time before England was asleep—he wondered if England would even remember this conversation. Alfred sat down on the edge of the bed, watching him for a long moment, his thoughts still in turmoil over England’s question.   
  
“I’ll come to you if the bombs come,” Alfred promised, and wasn’t quite sure why he was promising it. Perhaps the need to be of use while he was here, if only for something. To be a hero. To be important or needed—and to have actually volunteered for that help. Perhaps that was what it was. Perhaps—  
  
England didn’t answer, just gave a sleepy little hum, eyelids fluttering. Alfred’s thoughts halted. England did not move, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed—breathed for another day longer.   
  
He stayed there for a short while after and only after England fell asleep did he leave.   
  
Before stepping out of Number Ten, he murmured, “Hell if I know why—but I’ll find you again.”  
  
Outside, Alfred waded through the desolate London streets in the early afternoon feeling exhausted and drained. His feet felt as heavy as his eyelids. But he could only imagine how drained England must have been then, and how exhausted he must have been throughout the entire night—Alfred had only seen him at the end of it all. Despite his best efforts, Alfred’s thoughts remained on England. And by the time he made it back to the embassy, it was well past lunchtime and even though Alfred was starving, his exhaustion won out over his growling stomach. He collapsed on the couch in Winant’s office and slept for several hours, lulled instantly to sleep by the sound of the man’s working and writing.   
  
He awoke several hours later to the sounds of writing, yet again, and he blinked his eyes open. There was a blanket draped over his shoulders and he curled his fingers around it, cheeks flushing a warm red. The sun was setting outside and Alfred yawned loudly, feeling his jaw crack from the force of the yawn.   
  
“Welcome back,” the ambassador said once he caught Alfred’s eye.   
  
Alfred nodded, and sat up, scratching at his hair and doing his best to work the crick from his neck. The blanket tumbled off his shoulders and folded into his lap. There was a chill on the end and Alfred shivered just a little.   
  
“How is Sir Kirkland?” Winant asked after a moment.   
  
Alfred thought back to the image of England, bloody in the bathtub. Alfred tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling, trying to think of a way to word it without being too complementary to England’s strength without seemingly deprecating the man. He imagined England, body compact and folded into itself, draped in the bathtub with the blood sticking to every corner of his skin and his hair. And then limping his way into the bed, shrugging off Alfred’s arm when he went to help him, stubborn and foolish until the very end. He remembered the way England sank down onto the bed, sighing and his body slumping. He remembered the way England stared after Alfred as Alfred slowly backed out of the room and shut the door behind him.  
  
Alfred frowned.  
  
“He didn’t cry,” was what he settled on.  
  
A touch of a smile lingered in the corners of Winant’s mouth as he lowered his eyes to his file work. He didn’t speak at first, shuffling a few papers. Alfred didn’t speak, staring at the wall moodily, watching the click of a clock as the time progressed. The clicking of the clock was the only sound in the room for a long moment.  
  
“He’s brave,” Alfred decided on, cautiously, side-eying the ambassador in case he started to misconstrue Alfred’s admission. He cleared his throat and hastily added, “Cause. He was just kinda dealing with it—with everything.”  
  
“Did you expect him to?” Winant asked, not unkindly.  
  
“What, to be able to deal?” He thought it over. He shrugged.  
  
“I meant… did you expect him to cry?” the ambassador corrected, voice soft.   
  
Alfred didn’t breathe for a moment. And then he shrugged and stood up, wandering around the room absently. He looked out the window—half-covered in paper to keep the gust out after the windows had been mostly shattered from their frames—and surveyed the damage done to the square. The chaos of the night before seemed a million miles away—tonight, it was deceptively peaceful, as if nothing was amiss.   
  
“He shows the world a face no one has seen before in this war—himself and his people,” Winant said, absently, tapping his pen against a piece of paper before standing to join Alfred at the window, hands tucked behind his back. Alfred looked to him as he joined him, frowning. Winant wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t quite frowning either. “There’s a spirit, a strength. Bright days and livid nights—it was this way last autumn as well. With this kind of spirit, he calls himself up from despair the spirit of other men… and it is that spirit and example which can overbore any defeatist.”   
  
They lapsed into silence, and before Alfred was aware enough about it, he realized he was nodding his agreement to Winant. But he stopped abruptly, his thoughts spiraling moodily as he looked out at the destroyed square, at the destroyed cityscape beyond, just now fading from his view from the dying sun.  
  
“Americans believe that they are saving the British. And they are. But I believe that they, in turn, are saving America.”   
  
Alfred’s brows furrowed. He gave the ambassador a skeptical look, but Winant only smiled at him.   
  
“I don’t need saving,” Alfred protested, weakly. “I’m not the one falling apart.”   
  
“Perhaps not. Do you believe that the United Kingdom is doomed, Alfred?”   
  
Alfred felt a chill run down his spine. His fists clenched together. He remembered what he’d thought of England before—how he had told himself that he didn’t care that England would, ultimately, fall. He remembered how that changed, for one brief time, when he admitted to himself that he didn’t want it and, that, above all else, England would never fall. He was too stubborn. That time seemed so far away now. How easy it was to say that before he saw England with the bomb wounds across his body, the new scars already tearing across his skin. How easy it was for him to believe that England was invincible, when he didn’t have to see the things that could make him the very opposite.   
  
“… I don’t know,” he said quietly, and hated that he knew it to be the truth.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Two days later, the bombs returned. Alfred heard the humming of the engines, heard the distant explosions. He saw the fire blossoms across desolate parts of London, flattening it and wiping it clean.   
  
“Not as many as tonight,” Winant said. “They must be bombing over cities, too.”   
  
Alfred moved. But before he could grab his coat and run to 10 Downing, Winant touched his shoulder and tugged him away.   
  
“But I—” Alfred protested. _I promised—_   
  
“Sir Kirkland is with the Prime Minister,” the ambassador said quietly. “They’re keeping an eye on him now. He’ll be cared for. He’s in a bunker at parliament. He’ll be alright down there.”  
  
He squeezed Alfred’s shoulder, encouraging.  
  
Alfred’s brows furrowed and, still gripping his jacket, he looked out the window, watching the bombs blaze to the south. His eyes widened and his heart thudded.   
  
“I know you’re worried, but—”  
  
“I’m _not_ worried,” Alfred insisted, feeling his face heat up. Something lodged in his throat, and it took just a little too long for it to clear so Alfred could speak normally and impassively. He pulled his jacket on. “Besides, I wasn’t gonna go look for England or anything. I was gonna go make sure the people in the streets are okay!”  
  
A bomb blasted, to the south, close and making the floor shake. Alfred stared up at Winant, and Winant looked back at him, not unkindly. He reached out and grabbed his hat, placing it on his head.  
  
“My mistake. I’ll accompany you,” he said.  
  
The two men set out together.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Yes, it seems the Prime Minister can’t be swayed on this. I agree with the decision, though. After all… In addition to the capital, it seems Manchester, Portsmouth, Cardiff, Plymouth, Liverpool, and Bristol have all suffered damage,” Alfred heard Winant saying to another worker in the embassy. Alfred leaned against the wall, knowing he was eavesdropping but really having nothing else he could do. He clung to the words—he kept his ears strained for any news of England’s condition. He heard Winant sigh. “Six consecutive nights of bombing in Liverpool especially. It’s destroyed nearly half of the city’s docks.”  
  
“But that means—”  
  
“Yes. It reduced the amount of supplies that can be unloaded from incoming ships to just a quarter of the normal tonnage. If the Luftwaffe continues to bomb the country’s ports and the U-boats continue to sink the merchant ships…”  
  
“They’ll all starve,” the other worker whispered.  
  
Alfred felt his blood run cold. Suddenly the embassy felt far too cold. He pulled himself away from the wall, swallowed thickly and licked the suddenly far too dry lips. He shouldn’t be eavesdropping. Listening in to problems wasn’t doing him any good and, in either case, he’d already told himself that he no longer cared.   
  
But before Alfred could make his great escape, the ambassador excused himself from the worker and walked away. Alfred heard the footsteps coming closer but didn’t think to leave until the ambassador entered the room and saw him almost immediately.   
  
“Ah, Alfred,” Winant greeted, looking grave but not denying his country a warm word. “I suppose you’ve heard that.”  
  
“… I guess,” Alfred said, and hated himself for, once again, sounding so petulant. “What’s the Prime Minister’s decision?”  
  
“He’s to visit Bristol,” Winant said. “For morale-building. He’s very concerned about the spirit of those outside London.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“And I’m to go with him, along with Mr. Harriman,” Winant continued.  
  
“Huh? Why’re you guys going?”   
  
“He seems to get confidence in having us around,” the ambassador said absently, looking off towards the windows at the far wall.   
  
“That’s all?” Alfred asked. “Seems—”  
  
He cut himself off, suddenly feeling too little and petty in the face of these bombed cities and, above all else, the look the ambassador was giving him.  
  
But the ambassador shook his head. “No, you’re right, Alfred. It is also strategic on his part. By having the two Americans with him, he can send a message that, despite everything, the United States stands with England.”   
  
Alfred frowned. “… He wants me to go, too, doesn’t he?”   
  
“I am not going to force you,” Winant said. “You have no obligation so if you’d rather remain here, it’s alright.”  
  
Alfred bit at his lip, and watched the ambassador shift uneasily.   
  
“If you’d like, I could possibly arrange it so that I could stay here with you…”   
  
“You don’t want to go?” Alfred asked, bewildered.  
  
For his part, the ambassador looked almost embarrassed. He turned away and walked towards his desk, and not sensing a dismissal, Alfred followed after him. Alfred watched the ambassador’s tense shoulders as he slowly sank down into his seat and stared down at the file work waiting on his desk. He sat there in a long silence, but Alfred knew to wait. He sank down into a seat in front of Winant’s desk, slouching a little before slumping further, legs outstretched and arms hanging off the chair’s arms.   
  
“It isn’t that I don’t wish to lend my support to the people of Bristol and elsewhere,” Winant said slowly. “It’s only that… the Prime Minister has been… very insistent lately.”   
  
“Oh?” Alfred asked, bewildered.  
  
Winant nodded, grave. “Very insistent upon receiving more aid from the United States.”  
  
He spoke slowly, collecting his words, and very carefully gauging Alfred for his reaction. Alfred, for his part, didn’t really react other than a furrow of his brows.   
  
“Oh.”  
  
“He wants your navy to protect the merchant ships carrying the lend-lease aid here. He says that US aid is no good if it never arrives to the British people.”   
  
Alfred’s frown deepened. “That would be as good as a declaration of war, though.”   
  
Winant sighed and closed his eyes. “More than anything else, that’s what the Prime Minister wants. For the United States to join the war.”   
  
Alfred shifted in his chair, forcing his posture into something more presentable and professional. He folded his hands into his lap and studied his squared knuckles for a long moment. “I can’t join the war,” Alfred said, slowly. “I’m… well. You know. I’m neutral. Indifferent.”  
  
“I wonder,” Winant said softly as he flipped through a few papers on his desk, “just how neutral are you, Alfred?” But when Alfred looked up at the ambassador with a start and quickly coloring cheeks, the ambassador merely shook his head as a sign of dismissal. “If you do choose to come to Bristol with us, I suspect the Prime Minister will want to have a word with you. He keeps insisting on more weekend visits from you. He seemed to… very much enjoy your presence last time.”   
  
Alfred made a soft grunting noise, non-committal and embarrassed.   
  
Winant lapsed into silence, understanding the need for it at times and never pressing such things. When Alfred didn’t answer immediately, the ambassador merely resumed looking over his work. He worked in silence, signing a few documents, filing a few others, scratching at something on others still. He seemed content to work diligently for the rest of the afternoon. Alfred, meanwhile, sat in an awkward silence, unable to collect his thoughts. His heart still thundered from Winant’s quiet rebuttal—just how neutral was he?—and his mind scrambled to answer the question. But no matter what the answer was, he couldn’t justify having the navy escort merchant ships. And even if he did, his congress and his military would never allow for such a thing to take place. Churchill’s ambitions were doomed from the start. Churchill’s insistence and desire for more US influence would never come to be. The war would come and go, and the United States would remain as uninvolved as it could. That was that. There was no changing it.  
  
But even so—  
  
“I’ll go,” Alfred said, suddenly.  
  
Winant looked up, staring at Alfred. Alfred stared back, determined, jaw set and shoulders braced.   
  
And then a touch of a smile spread at the corners of Winant’s mouth. “Alright.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
At the train station, Alfred’s eyes found England immediately.   
  
“You look like shit,” Alfred announced as his greeting when he managed to get to England’s side.  
  
England gave him a withering look, heavy bags under his eyes, bruises and cuts on his face, and his arm in a sling. He did look awful, but Alfred had expected as much—and yet seeing England like it so suddenly didn’t quite prepare him. He looked thinner now, his clothes hanging off him like bags. His suit, once tailored perfectly and flawless, was the same drab color as Alfred remembered it being upon their first meeting again, threadbare and carefully stitched together with England’s steady hand. Only now, with the broken arm, Alfred could see the little holes in his clothes that England just couldn’t manage to fix. He was pale, as always, his eyes sunken in and his cheekbones standing out a little more prominently from before.   
  
But he still looked at Alfred with all the defiance and brilliance he could muster, that dogged determination that never seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach. He curled his lip back in distaste and said, “I’m well aware of that fact.”  
  
Alfred almost grinned, manic and desperate for any reason to separate the strange emotions he felt whenever England was nearby—he couldn’t begin to parse it, but he also didn’t want to. He didn’t want to understand everything that was happening, everything that he felt. It would be easier if he could just go home—but that only made him think of England’s question. Why, above all things, did he remain here? The grin was manic, and undoubtedly England noticed, as he was about to say something. Alfred strove to interrupt him but before he could, the Prime Minister was walking up to him, cigar between his lips and a walking stick in hand, and Harriman and Winant trailing behind him.  
  
“Ah, here he is,” Churchill boomed and grabbed Alfred’s hand, shaking it enthusiastically as before.   
  
Alfred, suddenly feeling far too awkward and put out, couldn’t quite summon a reply other than a small nod. Churchill turned his attention towards England, and Alfred watched as England’s expression softened, just a little, upon the Prime Minister’s inquiry after England’s arm.   
  
“I’m quite well, Mister Prime Minister,” England said, voice soft and almost comforting.   
  
Churchill nodded, and then was grabbing at Alfred and tugging him along. “Let us go, let us go. We have several places to go before we make it to Bristol tonight.”   
  
Alfred found himself ushered rather unceremoniously onto the train, followed by the Prime Minister himself, Harriman and Winant, Churchill’s entourage, and finally by England, who climbed onto the train with more grace than a broken, bleeding man should be able to. The party spread out through the Prime Minister’s train, finding places to sit and rest. England sat down beside Alfred, but didn’t seem too pleased by this arrangement.   
  
“It looks like it hurts,” Alfred said after a lengthy silence, the train rumbling its engine and beginning its journey west from London.   
  
England side-eyed him for a moment, and then turned to regard him. He stared at Alfred so long and so intensely, that Alfred began to shift uneasily. But England did not break his eyes away from him, nor did he back down. Alfred, in turn, refused to back down and kept staring at England. He wasn’t quite sure what England was looking for, or, for that matter, just what he was waiting for.   
  
“Why do you care?” England said after a moment.  
  
“I don’t,” Alfred said, quickly, lips tugged down into a frown. “I don’t care. I was just wondering if there was a reason you looked like the living dead.”   
  
England continued to stare at him, a withering glare.   
  
Alfred refused to shrink.   
  
England sighed, closing his eyes, finally, and slumping against his seat. “Of course it hurts.”   
  
Alfred hadn’t really expected that answer, and he felt his back straighten just a little.  
  
They both sat in a long silence until England said, slowly, calculating his words, “My people are dying and even more people have lost their homes. Civilians. Now we are traveling to other places that have lost so many people and so much else. I am tired, I am fatigued, and I am holding on. Any one of our kind would be exhausted in such circumstances.” And then, for half a moment, there was a touch of a smile—but it was just a glimmer and gone so quickly that Alfred doubted it’d ever been there at all. “But I will… we will survive this. My people will survive this. We absolutely… must. Even if it means…”   
  
He trailed off, blinking his eyes a few times, and turning to look out the window. There was nothing to see in the dark, though, except for England’s own reflection—haunted eyes staring back at haunted eyes.   
  
Alfred sat in a moody silence, feeling foolish for having made fun of England. He’d half-expected England to shout at him. But instead this quietly confident England was strange and new, or perhaps a replay of an old memory he’d long since tucked away. In either case, Alfred felt properly chastised without England having to lecture him at all.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
They pulled into Bristol just as the bombs started. Alfred watched in shock as England suddenly shuddered, let out a tiny little gasp, and then bent into himself, clutching at his side. Before Alfred could quite comprehend what was happening, Alfred was suddenly grabbed by the shoulders and pulled out of the way as Churchill’s aids, and a few of Churchill’s family, flooded to England’s side, inquiring after him.  
  
Alfred stood in shocked silence, suddenly displaced and unsure how to function. All eyes were on England, and as the train’s lights flickered out as the train found shelter beneath a railway bridge outside the city of Bristol, Alfred felt himself backing away. The world flickered outside the windows, as bombs touched down and the seaport ignited in flames—it was too much like London. The hum of engines filled the air, and Alfred felt too claustrophobic in that single train compartment, everyone shouting at England, inquiring after him—and through it all, England’s voice found Alfred’s ears as England insisted through gritted teeth that he was alright.  
  
Winant touched his shoulder. Alfred, startled a little, turned to look up at him with wide, bewildered eyes. But the ambassador said nothing and merely squeezed his shoulder.   
  
Alfred closed his eyes, clenched them tight, but even if he could not see it, he could hear the sound of bombs crashing down, and the sound of the screams England tried his hardest to muffle.   
  
And he realized, distantly, that twice now he’d broken his promise to find England should the bombs return.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
At first light, they drove into the rubble-covered town. Fires were still blazing and the streets were flooded with broken water mains. The residents searched the ruins of buildings for the dead and the wounded.   
  
“Devastation such as I had never thought possible,” Alfred heard one of the men whisper, and he felt his own chest throb and then tighten.   
  
He glanced to England, who had grown substantially more exhausted in the hours he’d been up at night. That haunted look in his eyes was back—  
  
 _It’s only a matter of time before—_  
  
Alfred blinked his eyes a few times, and then moved to stand next to England as the group moved through the streets. Alfred stared out at the wide swath of Bristol wiped clean by the bombs laying waste to the city the night before. His eyes glanced over to England. It wasn’t as destructive as the long attacks on London, but the attack had paid its toll on England.   
  
“Are you okay?” Alfred asked, voice thick despite himself.   
  
England slanted his eyes to stare at him, and then quickly looked away. The hand on his unbroken arm fiddled with the sling of his broken arm, almost self-conscious or perhaps just a nervous habit.   
  
“I’m quite fine,” England muttered. “I have no need for this constant nagging.”   
  
Alfred scoffed, despite himself, and scrambled to say, “I’m just making sure, ya know. I’m not _nagging_ you. If you need to sit down, it’ll probably be better so you won’t scare your people away.”  
  
“There is a reason I am not standing with the Prime Minister,” England said quietly, nodding his head towards where Churchill walked, Harriman and Winant on either side of him. It was true that England was lingering towards the back, occasionally adjusting his sling, looking like hell but, despite it all, keeping his chin held high, his lips thinned into a terse line.   
  
Alfred, once again, felt lectured. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and let out a long breath of air through his nose.   
  
“It’ll be easier if I remain out of sight,” England said calmly. He slanted his eyes up towards Alfred, watching him. “You’re the one that should be seen.”   
  
“Who, me?” Alfred asked, rolling his eyes. As they moved through the streets, it seemed as if England would fall down. Alfred cupped his hand over England’s elbow, ignoring the older nation’s protests, and steadied him before quickly letting his hand fall away. Touching him was strange. It was strange to think that he was still solid beneath all the scars and bleeding wounds. It was strange to think of this man in a setting beyond war—but Alfred could remember them. Fixing holes in his jackets in his sitting parlor all those years ago, cooking for him, returning to him, both of them running along the docks until Alfred was swept up in England—Arthur’s arms. Those were moments that Alfred, despite everything, still remembered.   
  
But Arthur was so far away, and all Alfred saw now was England. England who, despite everything, refused to fall and refused to just lie down. His face was hardened and bruised, his eyes haunted. But he still kept marching on. And, deep down inside, perhaps Alfred was impressed, perhaps Alfred was cheering him on. But as soon as he settled on that thought, Alfred shook his head rapidly and realized, belatedly, that England was talking to him and he’d missed everything he’d said.   
  
England was staring at him, as if expecting an answer.   
  
Alfred scratched at his cheek, and then shoved his hands into his coat pockets, feeling the chill in the air as Churchill’s procession stopped occasionally to speak with the people crowding around them, calling out to him:   
  
“Hallo, Winnie!”  
  
“Good old Winnie!”  
  
“You’ll never let us down—that’s a man!”   
  
The faces looking up at Churchill weren’t one of misery and pain—they had left that behind before crowding the streets, spreading the Prime Minister’s presence through word of mouth so that, soon, more and more people were turning corners to find the leader. They rushed towards him.   
  
The day progressed as such. Churchill moved through the city streets, meeting with people and reviewing the Home Guard—stiff at attention but a smile on their faces as the Prime Minister went by. They moved through the city. Churchill stopped to admire the decorations from the last war, a wry smile on his face. They moved through the ARP wardens, the volunteer firemen and, then, finally, to the women.   
  
England watched the people now, ignoring Alfred. And Alfred did not miss the soft look that touched at the corners of his eyes, just barely there, as his expression softened in turn.   
  
Alfred looked away, watched as an elderly woman shook Churchill’s hand, spoke to him for several minutes, and then, embarrassed, said hurriedly: “I am sorry I can’t talk to you any longer. I must go and clean my house.”   
  
And she hurried away, as quickly as an elderly, slightly-injured woman could do. England watched her go, blinking a few times, and sighing, a little shaky.   
  
Alfred glanced at him, but quickly looked away. Selfish or not, he couldn’t give up and feel that sympathy for England. Even if he knew it was a dying battle, surrounded by the proof of all of England’s strength.   
  
He walked from England and stood beside Harriman, who had spent the entire day taking notes on Churchill’s visit. The normally stoic man rarely showed emotion, but as Alfred went to stand near him, he saw the impassioned way he scribbled and when he spoke, he bordered on melodrama as he said, “They have been in the battle, tasted every fire, done their part, proud and unafraid. It is…”  
  
Harriman couldn’t seem to capture just what it was, as he trailed off and let out a loud sigh, before scribbling some more. He nodded curtly to Alfred and left to follow after the Prime Minister. Alfred was fine with this—perhaps walking alone would be better for now. So he walked at his own pace in the entourage of Churchill’s party, thinking to himself and taking in his surroundings.   
  
“He’ll come again, won’t he? But our boys will get him and then the new graves,” one of the women was telling Churchill, tears in her eyes. “We’ll win in the end, won’t we, Mister Prime Minister?”   
  
She spoke with such faith and, yet, at the same time, there was the fatigue in her eyes. That fatigue, sad look that had finally started to leave everyone’s faces before the bombs returned. Alfred could remember—the cautious happiness and the daring of hope. And now it was being squashed down again, and though the people stubbornly held on, stubbornly grasped onto that hope—Alfred could see how quickly it would dwindle, if the nightly raids continued.   
  
Alfred glanced over his shoulder at England, who was looking up at the sky—expression far away, but suggesting his thoughts were along the same lines. It was a clear day. That would mean a clear night, too. That would mean more bombs.   
  
The wind licked at England’s hair, and he didn’t move as Alfred approached him again.   
  
“They have such faith,” England said, quietly, and it was in that moment that Alfred realized that England had tears in his eyes. “It is… a grave responsibility, to have such faith.”   
  
Alfred didn’t say anything, watching England. And in that quiet moment, he realized that even wry and sappy, England was quietly brilliant. He stood in the sunlight, watching the sky, and then slowly shifting his gaze to stare out at his own people, watching them carry on through the dust and rubble, through the shabby clothes and through the monotony and fatigue. Alfred watched England’s expression ripple as he did his best to muffle the tears, now that Alfred was so close by. Part of him wanted to tell England that it was okay to cry, but another part was too taken aback by the fact that England, despite everything, could still cry.   
  
For the first time, Alfred wondered if maybe he was beginning to feel a kinship with England—he could feel the spark of sympathy in his gut upon seeing England’s misty eyes.  
  
And that thought terrified.   
  
“Are you crying?” he asked, his words coming out loud and accusatory—not his intention at all. But he wouldn’t dare take them back. Perhaps it was better, if he seemed unconcerned.   
  
England snapped his attention towards him, glaring. “Shut your mouth, boy, if you know what’s good for you at all.”   
  
Alfred flared up, frowning. “Don’t talk to me—”  
  
“And don’t you dare mock me,” England snapped back.   
  
“I wasn’t!” Alfred protested.   
  
Distantly, he thought it would be easier if he just refused to notice things at all. Being so aware of the world around him was too much hard work. Being so aware of every little change in England was too hard, as well. It was all just too much. They glared at each other, and then, slowly, England turned his face away. He looked back up at the sky.   
  
Alfred looked away, too.   
  
When he looked back again, a few moments later, England was completely dry-eyed, and the change was so resolute that Alfred wondered if he’d ever seen the tears.  
  
But when England spoke, the gentle waver to his voice betrayed him: “I do not know how much longer my people will last. I worry.”   
  
Alfred, taken aback by such honesty, wasn’t quite sure what to say at first.   
  
“Huh?”   
  
England glanced up at him. “They can put on the brave face but, in the end, morale is sinking. It is not just the return of the raids… and I know very well the effect of the raids—no one can withstand the bombings indefinitely. Sooner or later, the morale will go. And it is not only that, it is also the misery of everyday life that I fear.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Alfred asked.  
  
England gave him a look that clearly showed just how stupid England thought he was. Alfred colored in shame.   
  
“You have been here for nearly two months now. Shouldn’t you know?” England sighed, slumping a little. “Interrupted transportation, the dust, the worn clothes, the drabness that comes from want of things, no glass for the replacement of windows, stumbling home in the blackout, the shortage of light and fuel.” England shook his head. “Even the most brave-hearted could not withstand such a dreary picture for long.”   
  
“Yeah, but—”  
  
“Twenty months of this. Twenty months of war, and the struggle seems evermore unending. Relief is nowhere in sight.”   
  
Churchill’s party was moving now, back towards the train station. It was early afternoon, and time for the Prime Minister to leave. He had been in Bristol for many hours, and as Churchill led the way towards the train station, Alfred glanced over his shoulder to see the flood of people following—hundreds of people following their leader.   
  
“There has to be relief somewhere,” Alfred said, swallowing thickly and realizing, above all things, that he really did want to reassure England. “Everyone says that you’ll win this, that you’ll—”  
  
“I,” England said, quietly, so quietly that Alfred almost missed the words. Perhaps somewhere England realized that Alfred was doing his best to reassure, because his words did not come out harshly, only resigned, “I am bored by talks about the righteousness of my cause and my eventual triumph. What I want are facts indicating how we are to beat the Germans. And yet no one can give me those facts.”   
  
They walked in silence after that, climbing onto the train when they reached it, and setting into the train car. On the back of the train, Churchill stood with Winant and Harriman, waving goodbye to the people of Bristol as the train’s whistle sounded and the train began pulling from the station.  
  
Alfred watched as Churchill covered his face with a newspaper, crying. There was no shame in it, nor in the way that Churchill smiled and praised his people, praised their faith. And cried behind that newspaper.   
  
_It’s only a matter of time before England falls—_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 **Notes:**  
  
\- An estimated 1,100 Londoners were killed during the April 16th raids (of last chapter), the most devastating night of the Blitz thus far. But it held that distinction for only three days. On April 19th, German bombers hit London again, killing more than 1,200 people. In addition, almost half a million Londoners lost their homes in the two attacks.   
  
\- London was not the only city being bombed, either. That spring, as part of an all-out German attempt to sever Britian’s supply lifeline and shut down production of war material, the Luftwaffe blasted the country’s major industrial and port cities: Manchester, Portsmouth, Cardiff, Plymouth, Liverpool, and Bristol. In Liverpool, for example, six consecutive nights of bombing damaged or destroyed over half of the city’s docks, reducing the amount of supplies that could be unloaded from incoming ships to just a quarter of the normal tonnage. The destruction of the port cities, plus the sinking of merchant ships carrying necessary supplies, meant a dire countdown until the British people would run out of food and supplies and starve to death.   
  
\- Deeply concerned about the spirit of those living outside London, Churchill spent much of his time in morale-building visit to the bombed cities, often taking Harriman and Winant with him. “He seems to get confidence in having us around,” Harriman wrote to Roosevelt (though his chapter has Winant telling Alfred that). But, as Harriman noted, Churchill had another reason for showing off the USAmericans. Whenever he spoke, he would always introduce the two of Roosevelt’s envoys, as his way to show that the US stood with them all despite the US government’s continued ambivalence towards giving aid despite growing public backing (though entering the war still remained unpopular).   
  
\- During the trip to Bristol, Churchill’s train arrived to Bristol in the middle of a heavy raid, the sixth experienced by the busy seaport in the past five months. It destroyed a good portion of the city, from docks to city center.   
  
\- When Churchill walked down the streets of Bristol, very familiar in his stout figure, cigar, and walking stick, people flooded to him and spoke with him. News of Churchill’s visit in Bristol spread by word-of-mouth and soon more and more people came to visit him and his entourage. Crows flocked to him, affectionately calling him “Winnie.”   
  
\- Churchill’s procession through the city is as accurate as I could make it. Harriman indeed took notes of Churchill’s visit to the city, and he indeed was very emotional about it—noteworthy in that Harriman was traditionally and famously unemotional (being a very successful businessman). According to Harriman’s notes, Churchill visited the Home Guard, complimented the war decorations, visited the ARP wardens, the volunteer firemen, and the women.   
  
\- The conversation with the elderly lady who left to clean her house actually did happen. Harriman wrote about it in his notes.   
  
\- When the prime minister left Bristol that afternoon of his visit, hundreds of townspeople came to the station to see him off. Watching them wave and cheer as the train pulled away, Churchill shielded his face with a newspaper to hide his tears. Though the line in the chapter is given to England, it was Churchill who said: “They have such faith. It is a grave responsibility.”   
  
\- Harriman was so moved by the courage of Bristol, that he sent a substantial cash gift to Clementine Churchill, asking her to forward it to the city’s lord major to help those who had lost their homes. “All this pain and grief… may bring our two countries permanently together and that they may grow to understand each other. Anyhow, whatever happens, we do not feel alone anymore.”   
  
\- Despite the hope and faith portrayed in the Bristol visit, for the most part, the country was losing its morale. The home secretary, Herbert Morrison “is worried about the effect of the provincial raids on morale,” Harold Nicolson, the undersecretary of information, wrote in his diary in early May. “He keeps on underlining the fact that people cannot stand this intensive bombing indefinitely and that sooner or later the morale of towns will go.” Although smaller cities like Portsmouth, Plymouth, and Bristol did not experience the nightly pounding that London received, the damage they suffered in raids was far more widespread and devastating than that in the sprawling capital, where there still were vast areas untouched by bombs. The provincial cities also lacked the much greater resources of London: they did not have miles of Underground to serve as makeshift air-raid shelters, nor did they have access to the numbers of rescue and fire personnel or the emergency food, clothing, and other supplies available in the capital. Though England is the one to say it, it was actually Winant’s view that the gradual erosion of morale in the country had as much to do with the misery of everyday life as it did the renewed air raids.   
  
\- Again, attributed to England, but it was Harold Nicolson who wrote: “All that the country really wants is some reassurance of how victory is to be achieved. They are bored by talks about the righteousness of our cause and our eventual triumph. What they want are facts indicating how we are to beat the Germans. I have no idea at all how we are to give them those facts.”  
  
\- Painfully aware that his country’s only hope was US intervention, Churchill lobbied Winant and Harriman for more aid with an intensity bordering on obsession. Winant began to dread his weekend visit to Chequers, where Churchill would harangue him nonstop and then go off for a nap, leaving a cabinet member or some other top official to continue the argument. After an hour or so, the prime minister would return, refreshed and ready for another go at the weary ambassador. What good were Lend-Lease goods, Churchill repeatedly demanded, if they never made it to Britain? He wanted the US Navy to protect merchant ship convoys, but more than that, he was desperate for the US to enter the war.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Churchill drops all pretense and pleas for US involvement in the war, Alfred comes to a few realizations about his feelings and his actions.
> 
> Time stamp: May of 1941.

“Your face is thinner than it was before,” the ambassador said one day. It was the first day of May, a gentle morning. After the devastating bombings of the month before, Winant had bent hard into his work, striving to provide some relief for the British people and constantly working with the two capitals to try to get something done. But things were slow going. The United States did not feel Winant’s urgency and, as was normal for him, the president took weeks to respond to cables and letters. Winant looked as if he were reaching a breaking point, often looking disheveled or unhappy, slumped over his work and fisting his hands into his hair.   
  
The last few weeks since the meeting with Bristol had been nothing short of hectic. Alfred helped the ambassador as much as he could, and the work just kept flowing in. Alternately, Alfred had tried to cable and write to the president himself, since the ambassador thought that perhaps it would mean he would respond quicker if it were the nation writing. But correspondence with the president was stilted, even when it was Alfred making the efforts.   
  
Alfred was busy. Everyone was busy. Alfred had seen England only a few times, in passing, between the hectic shift between Winant, Churchill, Harriman, the parliament, and everyone else—flashes in the dark, just a brief nod, a stilted conversation about the weather or the chaos of human life. Alfred refused to tell himself whether he missed England or not.   
  
At Winant’s words, Alfred touched a hand to his face, pillowing his fingers against his cheek.  
  
“Am I?” he asked, mystified.   
  
The ambassador nodded, and looked apologetic—as if he were responsible for Alfred’s hunger, when undoubtedly he was just as hungry. “I know you cannot eat as much as you would back home, but…”  
  
“It’s fine,” Alfred said. “It doesn’t affect the country at all. Economy’s just fine. It’s just my human body reacting.”   
  
The ambassador’s frown deepened, but Alfred grinned, waving his hand dismissively.   
  
“It’s fine, Ambassador,” he repeated.   
  
It was Winant who seemed the most shocking. Now that Alfred paused to study his face, the ambassador looked years older than his true age. He was gaunt and hollow-eyed, standing as if it were a great effort. And yet, despite it all, he did not give up. Alfred felt a flood of affection bubble up inside him, thinking on his ambassador. He was a good man. He was someone Alfred was proud to know, he realized not for the first time.   
  
What started out as the beginning of a beautiful spring was quickly descending into the worst time of the war for England. Alfred could see the change daily in the people, and the governmental officials, Winant included, had begun to notice as much. More and more ships were sinking and the rationing of food was becoming more and more draconian. The last few weeks had not been kind. While the first sunny day of the year had ended with bombs at sundown, the spring continued to spiral further and further into disarray.   
  
But Alfred couldn’t tell if he was losing weight as well—but it was likely. He hadn’t looked at himself in a mirror for a long time, and he’d been here in England long enough that anything could look natural to him, as if he had always been that thin. But as he thought back to the short times he’d seen England the last few weeks, he remembered the hollowness to his cheeks, the heavy bags under his eyes, the quiet way he held himself—dignified, despite the sling for his broken arm. That, in addition to the bombings, couldn’t be doing any help for England’s morale—  
  
He thought back to the look in his eyes while they were in Bristol. That look still haunted him, and Alfred quickly shook his head.  
  
He stood up, wandering around the room. He could tell the ambassador was watching him, but Alfred didn’t really mind. He drew comfort from knowing that Winant was looking after him—one of his own people in a sea of foreigners in a foreign land. It was isolating—Alfred longed for his own people, for his own soil. Longed, once again, to understand just why he was brought here and, above all else, why he didn’t leave on his own.   
  
“I guess everyone’s been hungry lately,” Alfred said, softly, frowning to himself when he turned his back on the ambassador. He looked out the widow, at the square still destroyed by last month’s bombings.   
  
“Yes,” the ambassador agreed.   
  
Alfred nodded. “It’s… affecting the people.”   
  
“Of course,” Winant agreed, again.   
  
Alfred sighed out through his teeth, turning away from the window to face the ambassador, resting his hands against the sill and leaning back, regarding him. Their eyes locked, and for a long moment neither spoke—Winant was waiting for Alfred to speak.   
  
Alfred licked his lips, trying to collect his words—and desperately wanted a cigarette—  
  
“Is there nothing that can be done?” Alfred asked, and felt his heart stutter in his chest as he finally spoke the words. “For them? For anyone? Their morale—I can see it. I mean, no one can withstand this much for so long.”  
  
“The novelty is gone,” the ambassador said, “The novelty of withstanding. The lack of food most certainly has something to do with it.”   
  
“Yes,” Alfred said, and hated how miserable he sounded.   
  
“They are strong people but they are not resilient,” Winant said, crossing the room to lean against the wall beside Alfred, hand on his shoulder. He squeezed it, meant to be comforting. Alfred’s heart was still hammering. “You are very concerned, Alfred?”   
  
Alfred nodded, jerkily, before he could quite stop himself or second guess. “Only the heartless wouldn’t be.”   
  
He ducked his head.   
  
But out of the corner of his eye he could see the touch of a sad smile on Winant’s lips. “It seems you have grown a little since your time here.”   
  
“I guess,” Alfred muttered.  
  
“It seems that you do not ‘hate’ England as much as you’d believed, before.” Winant paused after that, letting the words sink in before he continued. Alfred did not rise to interrupt him, as was often his habit whenever he wanted to avoid the ambassador’s words—he often took advantage of Winant’s slower way of speaking. But he stayed silent now. And so the ambassador continued, “Or, perhaps, it’s that you do not ‘hate’ Sir Kirkland as much as you’d believed?”  
  
Alfred stiffened up, and did not speak.   
  
The ambassador did not press him, merely squeezed his shoulder and then let go. He straightened, smiling down at him, and, surprisingly, lifting a hand to pat Alfred on the head—a small little gesture, barely there, awkward and yet endearing. Alfred lifted his head to look at the ambassador in surprise, but the ambassador only smiled and moved back towards his desk.   
  
Alfred watched him go. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Whether I hate him or not—I don’t know. I—”  
  
He paused, shivering a little. He suddenly felt too cold.   
  
The ambassador nodded. “That, there, is a profound answer on its own.”  
  
“Huh?” Alfred asked—he couldn’t begin to understand how his indecision, the only consistent thing that seemed to win out in his mind as of late, could be profound.  
  
“Because,” Winant said, slowly, shifting through the papers on his desk and not looking up at Alfred, “You cannot say ‘I hate him,’ either.”   
  
Alfred didn’t breathe for a moment.   
  
He slumped away from the window so he could sit down on the couch, hanging his head. He clenched his hands together, thoughts lost as he scrambled to assemble some kind of coherent sentence. Winant, as always, was patience.   
  
“… I,” Alfred said, after a long pause, “I don’t. I don’t hate him.”   
  
It felt as if a burden had lifted, felt as if he finally understood something—and yet, at the same time, it seemed so achingly obvious now that he finally admitted it. It’d been there, waiting, all this time—and now he finally understood.   
  
Alfred’s brows furrowed, unsure what to make of this new development—did his people’s opinions of England change? He knew that couldn’t be the case—he knew the tear in his own people over this. At least, he did as of two months ago—he couldn’t be sure what it was like back home now.   
  
“I know you don’t,” Winant said, interrupting Alfred’s thoughts.  
  
Alfred looked up at the ambassador, and found him smiling at him. Alfred stared back at him, eyes widened—feeling strangely empty, strangely translucent, under the ambassador’s gaze.   
  
But he felt as if he finally understood at least that one little thing.   
  
He nodded.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Two days later, Alfred returned from getting some food—draconian rationing now, he thought, thinking of the single ounce of cheese they had for the week, safely tucked back in Winant’s apartment—to find the entire embassy in a bustle. He stood, blinking in surprise, as aides whistled by him.  
  
Alfred followed them, looking for Winant. He found him, slumped over his desk, writing furiously.   
  
“Ambassador?” Alfred asked, dodging around an aide as she whirled her way out of the room. He approached him. “What is it?”   
  
“It’s the Prime Minister,” Winant said, looking up to nod his head to Alfred—an acknowledgement—and looking back down at what he was writing. “He’s—well, he’s… cabled the president again. We’re hoping we’ll receive some kind of word of his reply, or the president will contact us personally.”  
  
“What’d Churchill say?” Alfred asked, approaching the desk.  
  
Winant shifted, picking up a sheet of paper and holding it up, reading: “Mr. President, I am sure you will not misunderstand me if I speak to you exactly what is on my mind. The one decisive counterweight I can see… would be if the US were immediately to range herself with us as a belligerent power.”   
  
Winant lowered the sheet of paper, setting it down, quite gently, upon his desk. He looked at Alfred.  
  
“Will the president respond soon?” Alfred asked, feeling his heart rate pick up.   
  
“I would hope so,” Winant said, brows furrowing. “The Prime Minister hasn’t… _begged_ since last June. He’s dropped all pretense now. What he needs are not ships or aid—he needs an ally.”   
  
Alfred almost shuddered, his entire body tensing up like a bow, and lowered his eyes, looking at the papers strewn across his desk.   
  
“The President has been slow in replying in general,” Alfred said, cautiously.  
  
“He has,” Winant agreed. “Let’s hope that, this time, he’ll feel that sense of urgency that we’ve been trying to show him all this time.”   
  
Alfred nodded, numbly.   
  
He dismissed himself, heading away from the embassy and towards the apartment where he stayed when not working the late nights with Winant. He sank onto the couch, staring down at the floor. The room seemed dusty—the dust had found its way in despite Alfred’s best attempts to tape up the windows where the glass had broken in the month before. The room was chilly.   
  
But he was lost in his thoughts. He thought back to Roosevelt—wondering if he would heed Churchill’s plea. But, Alfred feared as the most likely, the message could just get lost in the inertia of Washington—a message in a bottle lost at sea.   
  
“Or sunk by _Gneisenau_ and _Scharnhorst_ ,” Alfred muttered, out loud and bitter.   
  
Alfred slumped down a little, resting his chin against his hands curled together, elbows on his knees. He stared at nothing, thoughts whirling a mile a minute. The entire thing was a race against time. If the president intended to join the war, now would be the time, now would be the last chance before it’d just become too late, and the support would arrive too late to bolster up a gradually failing cause.   
  
And as he thought that, Alfred realized he was entertaining the thought of war, as if it were an actuality.   
  
He shook his head.   
  
“He won’t want to be told what to do,” Alfred muttered, thinking back on his boss.   
  
Alfred ignored the thundering beat of his own heart, alone in the room with nothing but his thoughts.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The president took a week to respond.   
  
Alfred wasn’t aware of the full contents, but as he watched an aide to Number Ten speak shrilly to Winant, he knew that it wasn’t good. Alfred watched, peeking around the corner of the doorframe so he wouldn’t be seen. He did not want to get into a debate with one of Churchill’s men.   
  
“Why is he continuing with this passivity and reluctance? What we need—what his people need, too—is bolder action!”   
  
“I understand your concern,” Winant said, voice tight as he shuffled through some papers. “But I’m afraid I can’t pretend to fully understand the president’s reasoning. I will do what I can from across the Atlantic to convince him of the dire situation.”   
  
Their conversation continued back and forth, as Alfred strung together that, as usual, the president did not share the same urgency as the prime minister. He’d been right, then, in the end—the president did not respond the way the prime minister had wanted. Alfred had dreaded as much, known that it would be the case.   
  
A few minutes later, the prime minister’s aide left the embassy and Alfred snuck his way into Winant’s office. Winant looked up when Alfred entered, gave him a small smile and a sturdy nod, before ducking his head back down towards his papers, scribbling things down when necessary and sticking them into folders.   
  
“The president responded?” Alfred asked without preamble.  
  
Winant nodded. “He did.”   
  
“And he won’t go to war?” Alfred asked, not sure how he felt about the possible answer—the possible answer he already knew.  
  
The ambassador shook his head. “He assured the prime minister that ‘American help would come soon,’ just as he always promises.”   
  
There was a weariness to Winant’s voice, a quiet desperation. Alfred shifted his eyes, looking out the window, thinking of all the British people who were falling apart but still fighting despite it all. He thought of England, but derailed his thoughts before he could think much further on the other man.  
  
He swallowed thickly, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. He felt as if his mouth was stuffed with wool, and he stood dumbstruck for a few moments in front of Winant, unable to collect his words. He wondered, idly, if this was what Winant felt sometimes, whenever he tried to speak.   
  
“Does England know?” Alfred asked.   
  
Winant frowned. “I do not know. He’s reportedly been at his home all day, cleaning it up as best he can. He insisted, despite the prime minister wishing to keep him under close watch. With his arm the way it is and his wounds…”  
  
Winant trailed off, shaking his head slowly, looking concerned. Alfred could understand why.   
  
Alfred shifted his eyes out the window again, mind elsewhere.  
  
After a long pause he said, “Hey.”  
  
“Yes, Alfred?” the ambassador asked.  
  
Alfred didn’t turn to look at Winant, but his brows furrowed. “You always ask me if I hate England and whether I believe that England will fall…”  
  
Winant didn’t say anything, waiting.   
  
Alfred swallowed again, thick and unsure. He cleared his throat a few times, feeling his cheeks heat up as the silence stretched on. Then he managed to ask, “What about you? How do you feel?”  
  
Winant was quiet for a long moment and then said, quietly, “I love this country.”  
  
Alfred’s face flushed and something shuddered down his spine.  
  
The ambassador continued, “And I believe it will stand up and fight until the very end—and I believe it will win. But, I also believe that it desperately needs help so it can avoid the fate of the rest of Europe.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
It was agony.   
  
That was what he was feeling, Alfred realized, dimly. Agony. A conflict—a shuddering shift and tug and pull of his thoughts. He couldn’t know for sure what was going on back home, as the news was few and far between, but he could imagine that, the tugging in his gut was a similar tugging in his people. He inhaled briefly and slumped against the couch in his apartment, looking out the window towards the embassy with a grim frown.   
  
Agony.   
  
He told himself he shouldn’t care—a common mantra—but in reality, the president’s non-response baffled him. Completely.   
  
And what was worse was the reality that something had shifted in the two months he’d been severed from his own people and his own home. He used to be in-tune to his boss’ thoughts, in-tune with his people and their thoughts and their own splits in thinking about the war across the Atlantic. But now he was the one across the Atlantic, and he couldn’t know what anyone back home thought anymore—  
  
It was isolating, and the churning in his gut was not helping his thoughts and feelings on the matter. Winant and the president had brought him over here for the reason of understanding the situation, and, Alfred suspected—  
  
Swaying public opinion.   
  
Alfred’s eyes opened briefly before he shut them again, slumping and groaning. Both Winant and the president wished to see if this could sway public opinion, as the country itself. But if that was what the president wanted—why did he not simply seize the declaration of war himself?   
  
“Congress must be dragging its feet, still,” Alfred said, dimly, draping an arm over his eyes and sighing. He shifted, making himself comfortable on the couch. “Or the people truly don’t want war.”   
  
But he couldn’t be sure. So many of his people despised the British, and so many wanted to help—all aid short of war. But, overall, Alfred could remember the apathy, the belief that all this destruction and war was a fuzzy, distant concern—not immediate.   
  
Alfred’s lips tugged down into a frown as he thought on the nights of bombings he’d witnessed. The thought of his own people going through that terrified him.   
  
“The situation is obviously critical,” Alfred murmured. “So what am I supposed to do? What do my people feel? How am I supposed to represent their feelings if I don’t even know it myself?”  
  
He shifted onto his side, sighing out. He was supposed to represent his people—but how could he know? Were the thoughts he felt now his people’s thoughts? Could he assume that this tug and pull, this uncertainty, was reflected in his own people?   
  
“This,” Alfred whispered to the floor, his eyelids heavy and his breath coming out in soft exhalations, “is exactly why I never wanted to come out of isolation.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Alfred was not sure how long he slept, but knew only that the blare of sirens awoke him.  
  
He shot upright, eyes wide, to find the world darkened and, outside, the sirens shrilling, a banshee’s cry. And when Alfred listened further, he understood the sound in the distance—the familiar, the horribly familiar, hum of engines and the slam of bombs dropping to the ground.   
  
Before he could really think about it, he was on his feet, throwing on his jacket and his shoes, and storming out of the apartment, tumbling his way down the stairs and out onto the street. The sky was a burning red as firestorms swept through the city to the south. Alfred ran—he ran until his lungs constricted, tumbling through the streets, running as quickly as he could before the bombs reached where he was.   
  
But he couldn’t outrun the German bombers. They flew overhead, and firestorms swept the city. He heard the scream of bombs above him, and for a few dangerous moments he thought that one was heading directly for the streets and buildings he was near—but no, the bombs exploded around him, showering debris, sweeping buildings into smoke and fire, and crinkling the concrete like paper.   
  
All around him he could see the people hurrying to underground shelters, and normally he would stop to assist—but he couldn’t stop. He had to keep going—he’d promised. He’d promised to find him, the next time the bombs fell. He would keep that promise.   
  
He was out of breath by the time he made it to that familiar home—out of breath, wheezing, and sweating a little. But he did not stop. He crashed into the house, without knocking, in time to see England teeter off his feet and smash—broken arm first—into the wall, slumping against it, breathing hard and sweating as well. He did not cry out—he stayed silent the entire time.  
  
“England!” he shouted, running to him.  
  
He looked up, eyes widening as he recognized Alfred barreling towards him. He flinched, and Alfred could see the wounds opening on his arms, and his skin shuddering and splintering as if he were burning—the firestorms. Alfred could see them burning outside England’s broken windows.   
  
“ _Idiot_ ,” England said through grit teeth, “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”   
  
“I promised, didn’t I?” Alfred asked, reaching out his hands and holding onto him, lightly, mindful of the way he shuddered in his hold every time he heard a bomb fall. “I’m here now. You aren’t alone.”   
  
England’s eyes flickered and he gave Alfred a look, looked as if he would say something, but instead his knees buckled and he stumbled just a little in his quest to rid himself of Alfred’s touch.   
  
“Fool,” he said, voice venomous, and tight with pain. “What do you think you’re doing, running around like a complete—absolutely foolish… what do you—”  
  
He cut off as a particularly bad shudder shot through him and he sank down to one knee. He slapped Alfred’s hand away, however, when Alfred slumped to help him up. Using the wall as support, he got to his feet on his own, glaring up at Alfred with more fire than Alfred thought he should have, given the situation.   
  
“Running around in a raid, are you out of your mind? For fuck’s sake,” England cursed, slumping against the wall in an act of nonchalance that betrayed the pain in the corners of his eyes, in the clenching of his jaw, in the slope of his shoulders. It was different, to see him after the bombings—to witness the bombs falling rippling across his skin and his eyes… was something completely different.  
  
“I promised,” Alfred said, eyebrows slanting together. “I don’t break promises.”  
  
England snorted.   
  
“Get to a shelter, boy. Get underground,” he said, softer this time, eyes closed. “Don’t do such foolish things in a time of war.”   
  
He waved his hand, a dismissal. But Alfred did not move. England sighed, opening his eyes and looking at Alfred with a practiced neutral expression, even if Alfred could still see the pain curling in his eyes, twisting and stabbing deep in his gut. Everything about him betrayed his desire to cry out—but he did not. He remained strong. He stared straight into Alfred’s eyes. Alfred could see a burn creeping up England’s neck, scalding his skin until it puckered.   
  
“I’m not leaving,” Alfred said, decisively. “I’m not leaving you.”   
  
A touch of a wry smile quirked the corners of England’s mouth. But it was gone soon enough and his expression darkened. “ _Fool._ I don’t want you here. Be gone.”   
  
“Too bad,” Alfred said. “I already made my decision. You won’t change my mind.”   
  
England looked like he was about to say more, but outside the bombs were screaming and exploding, the sirens were wailing, and buildings were collapsing. Outside, everything was falling apart, everything was falling—  
  
So England collapsed. Falling to his knees as he shuddered, crying out quietly despite himself. His face flushed, with shame, Alfred realized—shame of falling in front of Alfred like this, unable to stay standing even in these moments. Alfred fell to his knees, too, reaching out his hands and touching England’s shoulders, holding him as tightly as he dared.   
  
“I’m not leaving,” Alfred reminded. “It’s okay. It’s okay, it’s going to be okay, England.”   
  
England didn’t respond, just continued shuddering. His head was bowed, hair hiding his face, and he curled into himself. Alfred watched burns dance across his skin, phantom fires licking at every corner of his body. England dug his teeth into his lower lip, muffling the cries of pain that he undoubtedly would scream, had he been alone. Alfred wanted to tighten his hold, but feared hurting him. A shaking hand reached out and grasped onto Alfred’s arm—his hand was warm, burning, and his hold was tight. His nails dug into Alfred’s jacket. His teeth grit together, his brows slanted. He muffled his cries.   
  
Alfred slumped, shifting his hands to hold England’s cheeks, forcing his face up so that their eyes met. He held onto England’s face, held him tight and stared straight at him.   
  
“You can get through this,” he shouted. “Just look at me. Don’t look away from me. Don’t think about it, okay? It’s going to be okay—I’m not going to leave you.”  
  
Something snapped in England’s eyes, and he stared at Alfred with a shocked expression. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but then his breath hitched and he let out a soft cry of pain as his body shifted, shuddering.   
  
“You can get through this,” Alfred repeated. “Aren’t you the British Empire? Aren’t you—Can’t you do whatever the fuck you please and still survive? You can survive, old man. Your low morale be damned— _I_ know you can get through this. You’re too stubborn and bull-headed to let it all end this easily.”  
  
The man in his hands shuddered, his breath a hiss of pain as he tensed up. His body rippled. The world was ringing around him—sirens, bombs, shrapnel, screams. There was nothing more. Everything was falling, everything was being destroyed—but everything was holding on.   
  
“Fuck everyone who tells you that you can’t survive. Because you know it isn’t true. If you think deep down, you know that you’ll win this. You know that you won’t fall. You have to believe that—you believe that!”   
  
The other man looked as if he were trying to speak, looked as if he wanted to say something desperately, but the sweat was collecting on his forehead, his eyes were widened in pain, and he could find no words to speak to Alfred. So Alfred held onto him, so Alfred tethered him to the ground, tried to distract him from the pain ripping through his body, burns and blood dancing down his arms.   
  
“My clothes shall stain,” he finally managed, weakly, looking down at the rolled up sleeves of his button-down.   
  
But Alfred forced him to look at him again. “Fuck your clothes, you can get new ones.”  
  
His eyes narrowed. His voice was tight, clipped, as he spoke around the pain. “They’re rationing clothing now. I cannot simply ‘get new ones’ whenever I damned well please.”   
  
“Then I’ll give you some of mine, so shut up.”   
  
“Fuck you,” he snapped.   
  
Something ignited in Alfred’s chest. “Yeah, get angry at me, that’s what you need. Tell me all the shit I’ve done wrong, won’t you?”   
  
“Wha—”  
  
“Tell me how I’ve fucked up,” Alfred said. “Do it. Focus on that.”   
  
Maybe if he did that, he’d be able to get his mind off the pain—and it wasn’t as if Alfred didn’t deserve it. Alfred feared all the things he would say, though, feared all the criticisms. Feared the anger. Feared the dismissal. Feared the backing into a corner.   
  
The other nation stared at him, critical, shoulders shuddering. But then he licked his lips, staring straight into Alfred’s eyes, and said, with no preamble, “You never iron your clothes before seeing the Prime Minister.”   
  
“That’s seriously all you have to say?” Alfred asked after a short beat.  
  
“It’s incredibly rude,” he countered. And he even looked like he might laugh—  
  
But the sirens were screaming their banshee shrills, and the bombs were overhead. The house’s foundation shuddered under the force of the bombs falling around them, and Alfred saw him let out a weak little cry and slumped, forehead pushing up against Alfred’s shoulder. Alfred tried to raise him, but he would not budge. He tensed up, curled into himself, and the blood was bleeding through his white shirt, staining it, ruining it. But it was already ruined—it was already ruined, it had to be. There were the holes England always meticulously stitched up again, with a white thread when the shirt itself was more of a cream color. There were patches, there were stains, and the collar had long since lost its starch. And now there was blood—so much blood.   
  
“Hey!” Alfred cried out, but there was no response from the other man.   
  
Alfred wanted to shake him, wanted to pull him—but his wounds, his wounds—  
  
“Hey!” Alfred cried out again, trying to raise him. But instead, one weak hand lifted and gripped at Alfred’s shoulder, with a surprisingly powerful grip.   
  
He wanted to protect him—he wanted to help him. He wanted to do what he could to help him. He couldn’t do anything about the bombs, couldn’t do anything about the pain—Alfred felt absolutely powerless. But that wouldn’t mean he wouldn’t just step back and let it happen, that didn’t mean he could pretend to be stone-hearted. No, not protect. He would scoff at the mere suggestion of _protection._ It wasn’t protection this nation needed.   
  
He wanted to help him—  
  
“Come on, come on,” Alfred said—did not beg—and curled his arms around his waist, pulling him slowly, so very slowly, to his feet. He slumped against him, and Alfred held on tight—mindful of his wounds. “Where should I take you?”   
  
He breathed out, slowly, trying to collect himself. And then he straightened, looking up at Alfred with a furrowed brow. Then he nodded towards the bathroom, its door ajar at the end of the hall.  
  
“I won’t get any blood across these,” he said, sliding his foot over a rug. “They’re antiques.”   
  
Alfred almost wanted to laugh, but resisted, and led him towards the bathroom.   
  
Once inside the room, there was an eerie silence as Alfred uncurled himself from him, and the other man sank down, slowly, onto the floor. He stared down glumly at his shirt, ruined with blood, and thumbed at a button for a long moment before shaking his head, and slumping.   
  
He looked as if he were sleeping.   
  
Alfred kneeled down beside him.   
  
He opened his eyes as Alfred did so, and looked at him. “Don’t look so devastated, lad.”   
  
Alfred frowned, raising a hand to touch at his cheek, unsure what his face must look like in that moment. His frown deepened further. He sighed—breathing in and breathing out.   
  
“What can I do to help you?” Alfred asked, voice surprisingly soft. Something swelled in his chest.  
  
“… Ah,” the other said, eyes falling shut. He breathed out a little, body slumping further. He lolled his head to the side. “To help me—? Go to a shelter immediately.”   
  
“No,” Alfred said, without missing a beat. “I’m staying here.”   
  
Furrowing brows, a quirked frown. “I do not wish for you to see me like this, boy.”  
  
“I don’t care—It doesn’t change how I fe—” He swallowed, abruptly cutting himself off. “I’m not here to laugh at you. I’m here because I…”  
  
He trailed off, hesitating for half a moment—and then deciding he didn’t _care_ what he had to say about it:  
  
“Because I don’t want you to be alone.”   
  
Without missing a beat, the response was: “I have grown used to being alone in these situations.”   
  
“I don’t care,” Alfred said again. “Just because you’re used to it doesn’t mean it’s right.”  
  
“Very well.” A long sigh. “Insufferable fool.”  
  
“Whatever,” he said, and settled down so they were sitting side by side. “It won’t last too long, anyway, right? You’re feeling okay?”  
  
“I feel like I’m being ripped in two,” he said, stately and stoic as ever.   
  
“Oh,” Alfred said, softly. “Your wounds—should I—?”  
  
“It’ll be best to wait until the all clear signal for that,” he said, prim.  
  
“Oh,” Alfred said, softer still.  
  
He felt the shifting beside him and Alfred turned to look as the other man leaned in a little, eyeing him. He lifted his unbroken arm, hand splaying into Alfred’s hair, and pushing it away. He stared into Alfred’s eyes, critical, searching for something. His eyes watched him, sketched out the lines of his face, and Alfred felt completely unnerved, completely unguarded, under such an intense scrutiny.  
  
“What is it…?”   
  
But he received no answer, because in that moment he listened to the whistling of a bomb close by and the crash and rumble as it hit its target, not even a mile away. More followed. The planes hummed overhead and Alfred watched it all play out on the other’s face, watched the way his face tensed up, closed off, and then ignited in pain.   
  
He fell to the ground, shouting out.   
  
Alfred was there after him. “Arthur—”  
  
The words strangled in his throat, and he didn’t stop to think about it because he was on the ground now, too, trying to find the best way to capture his attention, trying to find the best way to hold onto Arthur without hurting him, and he couldn’t stop—  
  
His cheek pressed against the cold floor—on his side, staring at Arthur, trying to capture his attention. He reached out a hand, touched his flinching cheek and did not flinch himself. Tried to catch his eyes.   
  
“Look at me!” he cried out, and Arthur steadily lifted his gaze, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. His body shifted and curled, shuddered and tensed. “Don’t look away from me,” he said, and lifted his hands to grab at Arthur’s cheeks again, holding his face steady. Raising him up. “You can make it through this, okay? I believe in you, lots of people believing in you. You’re too stubborn of an old man to die out like a pathetic little candle, aren’t you?”  
  
“Fuck. You,” Arthur hissed out through clenched teeth, his face splitting in his pain, eyebrows furrowed, eyes clouded over with dulled pain. A single stream of blood dripped down from where a wound had split open in his temple, a shallow cut, but it was there. He blinked wildly at Alfred, seeming to lose track of him for a moment—but his gaze held steady.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Alfred replied, and couldn’t help but grin. “You know I’m right. Are you going to prove all those nay-sayers right? Are you just going to roll over and admit defeat? That’s not the country I know. And I would know, wouldn’t I?”   
  
“Fuck you,” was his reply, jaw tight.   
  
“That’s right, that’s what you gotta tell them,” Alfred agreed, and his grin widened. He curled his fingers into Arthur’s hair, holding him steady as he held his face upright, even as everything around them shattered and exploded around them, shrapnel and debris raining from the sky through the smoke and the pure hums of planes. “You can win this,” he told him, and knew that as he spoke, he was speaking the truth, he was believing in Arthur, and that was what he could do, that was all he could do while his administration dragged its feet, while his people stuck their ostrich-heads in the sand. “You can win, Arthur. You will win. And I know you’re sick of hearing that, so let me tell you in detail _how_ you’ll win.”  
  
Arthur didn’t reply, because he was shuddering, eyes clenched tight and jaw clenched in pain. His hand reached up and grabbed at Alfred’s shoulder, holding on tight, nails threatening skin even through the layers of shirt and jacket.   
  
“I should know, right? That you’re a stubborn piece of shit that won’t stop until your legs are cut out from under you or you win. So one of these days you’re just going to waltz into France, grab Germany by the balls, and twist. And you’ll probably say something glib and be very dashing or whatever word you want to choose, and France will swoon appropriately. That sound about right?”  
  
He wondered if Arthur would have laugh, if he could. He was too busy clenching his jaw and holding onto Alfred tightly, but his eyes did flicker up again and catch Alfred’s eyes.   
  
Alfred didn’t dare look away. He held that gaze.   
  
“You’re strong, Arthur,” Alfred said, quietly, so quietly that it was only their closeness to one another that allowed for his words to be heard over the scream of bombs outside. “You’re strong and you can bear this, when anyone else could easily roll over and cry. But look at you, being a stubborn old man until the very end. You face all this shit alone, and you still hold on. And, yeah, it’s only natural you’d grow weary of it, start to grow tired. But even so, you don’t give up.”  
  
Arthur shook his head a little, and tightened his hold on Alfred. His eyes were wide—stubborn, but fearful. They flickered, just slightly.  
  
“Don’t look away from me,” Alfred reminded, and Arthur’s eyes snapped back to Alfred’s. Alfred’s grin lessened, but a smile remained. After a moment, he sobered, and said, with all the weight he could manage, said: “You’re the bravest person I know. No question.”   
  
And it was in nights like these that Alfred could admit, if only to himself, that he wasn’t sure if he would be brave enough to bare bombings like this every night—not when he saw the way Arthur shrank away in pain, face twisted and clenched. He knew he was strong, he knew he was brave—but the thought of withstanding this, alone, was too scary for him. Alfred wasn’t yet ready to think of such things—and perhaps it was that fear, deep inside his people, that kept him in his neutrality.   
  
A bomb screamed—too close—and Alfred heard the windows in the other room shattered, heard a wall collapse. Arthur jumped, eyes wide, and Alfred, too, felt his heart speed up even faster than the rapid-fire pace it’d set itself at.   
  
“I’ll stay up all night with you, okay?” Alfred said, not really a question—he’d already decided. He stared down at Arthur with all the determination he could muster, showing him—hoping to show him that, no matter what, he would not abandon Arthur.   
  
Arthur nodded just a little, and something flickered in his eyes. His mouth opened, just slightly, and the grip on his shoulder was tight. His body was shaking, from the force of the bombs and the burns, but his eyes still held Alfred’s steadily.   
  
His breathing was shallow, his face was tensed, but he did not look away from Alfred for the rest of the night—and Alfred didn’t dare look away from him in turn.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
In the morning, Arthur was not better. He was burned, he was bleeding, and continued to bleed through the bandages Alfred tried desperately to tie around his wounds, tight enough to help but not too tight to cause pain.   
  
The air was thick with smoke and the streets outside Arthur’s windows were littered with debris and shrapnel. It was thick with burnt _everything_ , flakes of ash and charcoal falling lightly like snow over the expanse of destroyed city streets.   
  
“How do you feel?” Alfred asked, at the window.  
  
Somewhere behind him, Arthur sighed, tired and quiet. “There are still fires.”  
  
Alfred turned around to face him, frowning. “What?”  
  
Arthur was standing, at least, but he was slumped against the wall, holding onto himself, seemingly ready to curl away and shrivel up at any moment. His shirt was stained, his body shaking—and thin. Starving. His eyes were sunken, haunted, and heavy with bags. His face was gaunt—but he held Alfred’s gaze and did not waver.  
  
“Hundreds. Probably thousands. The fires haven’t gone out,” Arthur said, quietly.   
  
“Are you burning?” Alfred asked, moving across the room towards him.  
  
But Arthur shook his head. “The worst has passed.” He looked down at his arms, staring at the burns curling over his skin like they were their own flames. “I’ve grown used to it.”   
  
“That doesn’t—” Alfred shook his head, cutting himself off abruptly and walking to stand beside Arthur. Arthur sighed, resting against the wall and shaking his own head in turn.   
  
He really had never changed, something in the back of Alfred’s mind told him—he was the same as always. Just as he always remembered him—strong, stubborn, and, yet—struggling. Alfred swallowed. Arthur tilted his head up to look at Alfred, face neutral and studying him with some kind of critical gaze, frowning. Alfred was about to speak, but, suddenly, Arthur lifted his hand and slapped Alfred upside the head.  
  
“Ow—hey!”   
  
“Don’t you ever come here again,” Arthur snapped, and recoiled a little when hitting Alfred caused him pain. He cradled his hand against his chest, but it somehow didn’t look vulnerable, not when he was staring at Alfred with such intensity. “Running through bombs and fires—you are a complete fool and if I ever see you on my doorstep again in the dead of night again I will kick you out into the street and you can deal with yourself for the night.”  
  
“If you kick me out I’ll just help the people who need it,” Alfred said, “Like last time.”  
  
Arthur stiffened up, and seemed to puff up at the same time—torn between words. He could see it in Arthur’s eyes. But it passed, and Arthur just growled out a quiet, “Complete fool,” to himself and let the matter drop. He stepped around Alfred and, slowly, with just the slightest limp, started moving towards the back of his home—towards his bedroom. Alfred followed him.   
  
But Arthur stopped and gave him a glare. “I’m fetching myself a new shirt. I am more than capable of doing that on my own. I must go see the damage done to my people and I won’t present myself looking like a right slob.”   
  
“Geez, geez, okay,” Alfred said, holding up his hands in a sign of surrender, taking a step back. “Holler if ya need help, though.”   
  
“Shut the fuck up,” Arthur muttered, face flushed, as he slipped away.  
  
Alfred rolled his eyes and wandered towards a chair, sitting down. “Only he would consider himself a _slob_ of all things when he’s covered in _blood._ ” He looked down at his hands, and sighed. “He really doesn’t change.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Their walk around the city was silent. Arthur said absolutely nothing as they moved through the streets, viewing the destroyed homes, the streets steepled with debris and splintered concrete. The air was thick with smoke, and the air smelled of charred buildings and uncontrollable firestorms. The ash fell like snow. Arthur had to stop walking a few times so as to lean against the wall, his breathing heavy a few times, but, otherwise, stately. He shrugged away Alfred’s offers of help that Alfred tentatively offered, not wishing to look as if he were too concerned for him. Strong and stubborn until the very end, Arthur betrayed nothing on his face as he went. Just like the night before, he was as calm as he could manage, hardly making a sound.   
  
Arthur walked upright the entire way through the streets, wearing his only jacket, stitched and threaded with such care. His shirt beneath was stained, but not the one of the night before, and he kept it well hidden underneath the buttons.   
  
The damage was catastrophic. Almost every house they passed, Arthur’s included, was damaged in some way—some worst than others. Some were completely leveled. The newly homeless moved around the streets, with a different look than when the bombs had first returned—Alfred remembered that night, when they’d been stately and proud, thumbing their nose at Germany and carrying on—but now, they moved slowly, faces downcast as they collected the pieces of their destroyed homes, collected the pieces of realization that they were homeless.   
  
Arthur did not speak as they passed Queen’s Hall, now lying in complete ruins. He did not speak as he watched fires burn through the British Museum, destroying galleries and millions of books. He did not speak as he saw the damage done on St. James’ Palace, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, and Parliament. The entire time, he did not speak, as he moved. He kept his head bowed, weaving his way through debris and ruins, shoulders stiff.   
  
The smoke still hung thick over London, but there was a wind—blowing through the streets, through the ruins, through the remains of the bombings. The ash danced in little waves over their feet. The wind ruffled Arthur’s hair, and, undoubtedly, spread the fires across London. It smelled of burning—if burning itself could have a smell.   
  
Suddenly, Arthur stopped walking altogether, looking off. Alfred waited patiently and then, suddenly, with more energy and movement than Alfred had expected, Arthur was walking briskly across the streets towards the charred remains of a building—and Alfred recognized it instantly. Completely gutted by fire, the small hall of the House of Commons was nothing more than a mound of debris, gaping open to the sky.   
  
He almost hurried to pull Arthur away, but he knew Arthur could not be stopped. He walked into the debris, moved among the rubble. Alfred followed after him, cursing quietly under his breath when he nearly tripped and sprained his ankle for his troubles.   
  
Arthur stood, silently, among the rubble.  
  
And then he turned his head and looked at Alfred. “It’s happened.”  
  
“What?” Alfred asked, and feared for the answer. It’d been the first time Arthur had spoken since leaving his house that morning.   
  
Arthur’s voice was tight, and his expression—a forced neutrality, a painful neutrality—wavered. It shifted, as if it would fall away crack by crack. Alfred could see the cracks, could see the whimper of movement in his eyebrows, the quiver along his jaw.   
  
And then Arthur spoke, quietly, with that tight voice: “Of my people, more women and children have died in this war than the country’s armed forces.”   
  
Alfred did not answer right away, eyes widening. Something stuttered to a halt in his chest. “How can you tell—”  
  
Arthur turned his face away, and took one more look around the chamber. He was lost in his memories—looking up to where the ceiling would have been but was now just a gaping hole to the smoky sky. Pieces of ash fell into Arthur’s hair and stayed there. Arthur’s eyes swept—across the absent ceiling, over the charred remains of walls. He drank it all in, committed this new memory to rest among the old memories.   
  
And then Arthur knelt, picking up a piece of the ruined building, a piece of rubble. He cradled it in his hands, despite the broken arm, despite the way his body heaved under the weight. He stayed there, knelt. And as Alfred stood there he realized, perhaps belatedly, that as Arthur stood up with that piece of building, his shoulders were heaving. Alfred stood in shock, unable to move, as Arthur did not try to hide his tears as he had in Bristol. Here, he stood, crying—unashamed. The tears fell down his cheeks, curling over the grit and blood still caked across his face. His face rippled and turned red, his bottom lip wobbling. He was not beautiful as he cried, face scrunching, eyes puffing up and turning red as he wept. But he did not stop, and Alfred watched as Arthur laid a quiet kiss upon the rubble, letting his lips linger, saying one last goodbye to all the people he had lost, saying one last word to all the world closing in on him.   
  
Alfred took a step towards him and Arthur lifted his eyes, up at the sky, and then over to look at Alfred. Even in these moments, Alfred could not think of anything to say—could not think to dismiss or insult this man who, bleeding and fading, sinking fast, still held on.   
  
Arthur bowed his head, and set the piece of the building down with such tender care—his hand lingering upon the flat expanse of stone. And then Arthur straightened, still crying, pressing a hand to his face as if his shame and decorum had finally caught up to him, as if he’d finally remembered that Alfred was there. He was still sobbing, though.  
  
Alfred did not even realize he was moving until he stumbled over the rubble and pulling Arthur—gently—to him. He clutched onto him, and held on. He held Arthur tight, did not dare move or say anything. He just held him in his arms—and how easily he fit into his arms. Alfred ducked his head, pressing his cheek, very briefly, against the side of Arthur’s head, felt the warmth of his body, before straightening again, looking out over London.   
  
“Fuck,” he heard Arthur whisper quietly, after a short moment, “I always cry in front of you.”   
  
“It’s not bad,” Alfred said quickly, and then let his voice lower when Arthur cringed in his arms. “I mean… I’m not gonna hold it against you. It doesn’t make you weak, so it’s okay to cry. If you have to cry then… then cry. Because it’s sad, and it’s scary and it’s… it’s hard. It’s okay.”  
  
He could think clearly back to the time when he thought that it’d be weak for Arthur to cry—but he couldn’t let go of him now. He held on tight and, slowly, Arthur responded, lifting his hands and clinging to Alfred’s jacket as he wept against his shoulder.   
  
“But, don’t think I’ll do this every time or anything,” Alfred said quickly.   
  
“Of course,” Arthur muttered against his shoulder, voice watery and wavering. He continued to cry, his shoulders continued to heave.   
  
Alfred shifted, just slightly, pressing his cheek against him again, trying to soothe him—wanting him to be soothed and not caring that he wanted it. He held him, among the rubble, let him cry for as long as Arthur needed it. His heart thundered in his chest but he ignored it, and only held Arthur, only thought of Arthur.   
  
“It’s okay,” he said to Arthur’s quivering shoulders.   
  
Arthur shook his head and didn’t respond, crying quietly against Alfred. Alfred didn’t loosen his hold, staring out over the landscape, staring out over the leveled parts of London—his mind heavy with everything he knew to be true, everything he didn’t want to believe, and knowing that there was nothing he could do to stop the way his heart was stammering in his chest, no way to stop what he knew to be true—  
  
He inhaled sharply, and tightened his hold on Arthur. Arthur responded, taking in a shuddering breath and curling his fists into Alfred’s jacket, holding tight and refusing to let go.   
  
They stayed like that for a long while, too long for Alfred to know how much time had passed. But it was okay—he would hold him for as long as Arthur needed it. It was all he could do, now. Eventually Arthur calmed down, but he did not step away from Alfred’s hold—not for a long moment. Alfred didn’t push him away, but did not move, either. With a deep inhale, Arthur stepped away, face neutral once again. But something had changed in his eyes.   
  
He looked away from Alfred. He exhaled, a deep, pained sigh. His expression wavered for half a moment, but then it smoothed over—and it was the Arthur he’d always known again. Calm, stately, and quietly stubborn and brilliant. Strong, shoulders strength, eyes narrowed with some kind of realization and determination.  
  
He would not fall.   
  
Arthur looked out over London.   
  
“I am meant to be a beacon,” Arthur said quietly. “Every day more and more people from the continent come here, after escaping their occupied homes. They see London, despite all its destruction, as some kind of beacon of hope and freedom and I—I do not know how much longer I can hold on. For them, for my people… for anyone.” His hands shook, but he refused to cry again. His expression remained grim, stone-faced and determined. “I don’t know, anymore.”   
  
“You won’t fall,” Alfred said. “I know you won’t.”   
  
Arthur looked to him, frowning. “Do you?”  
  
“Yeah,” Alfred said, not hesitating.   
  
Arthur hummed low in his throat, and turned his attention back out towards London—as far as he could see through the smoke and ash, at least. He sighed, a long heaving of air passing between himself and his people. He looked out on the world, and the world looked back.   
  
“I wonder,” Arthur murmured.   
  
Alfred didn’t respond, just shifted so that he was standing beside Arthur.   
  
Together, they walked through the rubble, out to the street again. Alfred was having a hard time breathing—he told himself it was because of the smoke in the air.   
  
“If things had gone differently,” Arthur said, quietly, beside him as they walked. “Perhaps if one thing had changed, perhaps everything would have turned out differently. Perhaps if I’d…”   
  
He shook his head.  
  
Alfred frowned.   
  
“Do you have any regrets?” Alfred asked, looking at the crippled buildings all around them, at the shrapnel and debris all around them.  
  
 _It’s only a matter of time before—_  
  
“Me?” Arthur asked. Then there was the touch of a wry smile, a touch of something that didn’t quite seem to fit on Arthur’s face. “No. That would be unprofessional.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
A few days later found Alfred with Winant, as Winant presented his speech to the English-Speaking Union of London. The days since Alfred had last seem Arthur were spent attending a few funerals and memorials, helping clean up the streets, and helping the people as best they could—the ones who had lost their homes, or the ones who had lost gas, electricity, and water. It all seemed hopeless, but Winant never gave up, and, perhaps because of him, Alfred never gave up, either.   
  
Alfred’s mind was drifting, however, to thoughts of Arthur, thoughts of England. He snapped back to attention, however, when Winant spoke of the statue of his hero, across the street from Parliament and Westminster Abbey—Abraham Lincoln. Alfred lifted his head, looking up at the ambassador.  
  
“As an American,” Winant said, “I am proud that Lincoln was there in all that wreckage as a friend and sentinel… and a reminder that in his own great battle for freedom, he waited quietly for support for those things for which he lived and died.”   
  
It was subtle, but it was there—the comparison between Lincoln and the British people, and it made Alfred’s heart tumble down into his gut. And after a short pause, Winant looked out over the crowd and said, “I stand firmly with the British—and it’s time my own country did so, too.”  
  
And then his eyes found Alfred. Alfred stayed very still, surprised. But he did not look away—he did not back away—he did not run away—  
  
“We have all tried to make ourselves believe we are not our brother’s keeper,” Winant said, expression calm but determined, “But we are not beginning to realize we need our brothers as much as our brothers need us.”   
  
Alfred was shivering, felt far too cold, and his heart pounded in his chest.   
  
_It’s only a matter of time before—_  
  
No.   
  
“We have made our tasks infinitely more difficult because we failed to do yesterday what we are glad to do today,” Winant declared. “To delay longer will make the war more protracted and increase the sacrifices for victory. Let us stop asking ourselves if it is necessary to do more now. Let us ask ourselves what more we can do today, so we have less to sacrifice tomorrow.”   
  
No, it wasn’t a matter of time. It wasn’t a matter of time before Arthur would not fall. He had to believe in him—that was all he could do right now, and that was all he could do. His country would give the aid, the food, the ships, the belligerency zone—he would give what he could.   
  
Because Arthur would not fall. He’d push the old man to his feet every time if he had to, if it meant that Arthur would be okay.   
  
No matter what happened, he was changed—Alfred knew it to be true. He’d changed. They’d changed him. And he couldn’t go back.   
  
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**  
  
\- April and May of 1941 were as close to starvation as the British ever got. The British could not stop the German U-boat attacks on merchant shipping. Rationing of food items was now draconian: individuals were limited, for example, to one ounce of cheese and a minimal amount of meat a week and eight ounces of jam and margarine a month. Some foods, like tomatoes, onions, eggs, and oranges, had disappeared almost completely from store shelves. Clothes rationing had also begun, and most consumer goods, from saucepans to matches, were almost impossible to find.   
  
\- _Gneisenau_ and _Scharnhorst_ were new German battle-cruisers. They created wolf packs that picked off British merchant ships like fish in a barrel. The amount of material sunk in April of 1941, nearly 700,000 tons, was more than twice the loses two months earlier. The shipping figures were so calamitous that Churchill ordered the Ministry of Information to discontinue their publication for fear of hurting public morale.   
  
\- “The novelty is gone.” Correspondent Vincent Shean said. “You won’t find any of the high-spirited, we-can-take-it stuff of the last year,” the CBS newsman said. “People… are getting a little grim. All the novelty is gone. The epic period is over. Food has something to do with it—everyone is probably a little under-nourished.”   
  
\- Public opinion in the US was torn between wanting war and not wanting war. The majority did not, though a good chunk of USAmericans realized that, eventually, they would have to fight the Germans—but they did not realize just how close or dire the situation was in Europe. Some people wanted more aid, while some people, and in particular the US military, despised the British. Anglo-phobia was still rampant in the US during this time. But, above all else, there was an overwhelming amount of apathy.   
  
\- Churchill issued his cable to Roosevelt on May 3, 1941, begging the US to enter the war. Churchill dropped all pretense in pretending that what the country needed was aid. What the country needed was a strong ally to stand with it. Churchill hoped for a quick response from Roosevelt but, instead, the president did not respond until exactly one week later. And in that response, he merely said that USAmerican help would arrive “soon”.   
  
\- Roosevelt’s seeming lack of alarm alarmed people on both sides of the Atlantic. Despite having a bitterly isolationist congress, key members of Roosevelt’s administration were alarmed by his seemingly lack of action and commanding leadership. This is not to say that the president himself was not concerned about the war—he was. He was very concerned about what was going on in Europe. He made many efforts before and after the cable, to help the British while still heeding the public opinion to stay out of the war.   
  
\- On the day that Roosevelt issued his non-response to Churchill, May 10, 1941, the bombs returned. This was, by far, the most devastating night of the Blitz. By the morning of the 11th, more than two thousand fires were raging out of control across the city, form Hammersmith in the west to Rumford in the east—some twenty miles away. The damage to London infrastructure, and landmarks, was catastrophic. [Queen’s Hall](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Queen%27s_Hall), [the British Museum](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_British_Museum), [St. James’ Palace](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._James%27_Palace), [Westminster Abbey](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Westminster_abbey), Big Ben, and Parliament all suffered extensive damage from the bombs.   
  
\- [The House of Commons of the United Kingdom](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/House_of_Commons_of_the_United_Kingdom), however, was not so lucky. The scene of some of the most dramatic events of modern British history was nothing more than rubble, gutted by fire. The scene at the House of Commons between Alfred and Arthur is from an actual historical visit, a few days after the raid, in which Churchill toured the ruins of the House chamber. Churchill had a deep respect and love for the House of Commons, as he could, in effect, lay claim to the place—it was there that he had become a new member forty years before, where he had warned parliament in the 1930s of the dangers of appeasement with Germany, where he’d had his debate with Neville Chamberlain over his conduct in the war, which ultimately lead to his accession to power. And he’d delivered many speeches from this place, soaring speeches to raise morale for the British when the war first began. So it is not surprising that, as he stood in the rubble of such a place, he cried without shame.   
  
\- Every major railroad station but one was put out of action for weeks by the force of the bombings, as were most of the underground stations and lines. A third of the streets in London were impassable, and almost a million people were without gas, water, and electricity. More than two million houses were damaged or destroyed. In central London alone, only one house in ten had escaped completely unscathed.   
  
\- The death toll for this single night of bombing was 1,426. Never in London’s history had so many of its residents died in a single night. Since the Blitz began, some 43,000 British civilians had been killed by bombs, about half in London. As of the spring of 1941, far more British women and children had died in the war than had members of the country’s armed forces.  
  
\- “I am meant to be a beacon.” As one of the few “free” nations left in Europe, many refugees from German-occupied countries would go to England, and specifically London. Despite the disarray and desolation of the bombings, it was still much better off than a lot of places in Europe and, thus, provided relief and protection. Many exiled governments stayed in London: France and Belgium's.   
  
\- On May 15, 1941, Winant delivered a speech to the English-Speaking Union in London. One of his most powerful speeches, Winant blatantly created the connection between the US and the UK, citing the statue of Abraham Lincoln across the street from Parliament and Westminster Abbey.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred returns to the US.
> 
> Time stamp: May and June of 1941.

“The president said what?” Alfred asked, looking up in shock.  
  
“He wants us back in the US immediately,” Winant repeated.   
  
Alfred rose to his feet, brows furrowed, and he shifted before he approached Winant. “Are you sure? What for?”   
  
The ambassador frowned, and shook his head. Unsure. Uncertain. It was a mystery.   
  
Alfred blew out a long sigh, crossing his arms and pacing around the room, going through an index of possibilities for why the two were suddenly called back to the US—it was either a good or a bad thing, and Alfred wasn’t quite sure which one would be better for them. He continued pacing, mind scurrying through the possibilities, expression closed off in his musings. As he thought, Winant returned to his papers, shuffling them and signing a few, folding them into folders and arranging them in an orderly fashion.   
  
“What about Arthur?” Alfred asked, suddenly.  
  
“I beg your pardon?” Winant asked, raising his eyes from some documents.  
  
“Um. England. What about England?” Alfred asked, and then back-pedaled, “And his people! Like the Prime Minister—and that. Yeah. Do they know about it?”  
  
“We’ll be returning on the thirtieth, Alfred,” Winant said, warmly, smiling that crinkling paper smile of his, “There’s plenty of time to say our goodbyes.”  
  
“That’s not why I’m asking,” Alfred protested, feeling his neck heat up and a blush creep up over his cheeks and all the way to his ears. “I was just. Wondering what they thought of all it.”  
  
Winant continued to smile, wan. “It’s once we return that we’ll have to worry about their reactions.” His eyes slanted up. “Well, I’ll have to worry. I’m not sure what the president has planned for you and… whether he’ll want you to return.”   
  
Alfred froze up. “I…”  
  
He hadn’t thought of that.   
  
Winant, obviously noticing Alfred’s surprise—distress—sighed a little sigh and then smiled. “We don’t have to think on it for now, Alfred. I just wanted you to be prepared—in case there were goodbyes you wanted to make.”  
  
“Heh, who the heck would I say goodbye to?” Alfred asked with a laugh as he went to exit the room.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Hey, old man! You here?” Alfred called out as he opened Arthur’s front door without knocking, peeking inside.   
  
He heard a muffled curse from somewhere inside and, taking that as the obvious affirmative, Alfred strolled on in, shutting the door behind him with a kick of his foot. He wandered in through the disheveled house, still dusty and cluttered. Arthur hadn’t had a lot of time to clean, lately, it would appear—or he’d been spending most of his time with the Prime Minister and under intense scrutiny from his government, to make sure he was okay. Alfred hadn’t seen much of Arthur since the last bombings.  
  
He turned the corner into the kitchen and Arthur was there, at the sink, scrubbing furiously at—at the shirt he’d been wearing the night of the last bombing. He scrubbed stubbornly, furiously trying to rid the shirt of its bloodstains.  
  
“You realize that’s a losing battle,” Alfred said.   
  
Arthur lifted his eyes and gave Alfred a withered glare. “I believe you have no idea what winning or losing a battle feels like, so I will thank you to shut your mouth.”   
  
Alfred rolled his eyes. He bit at his lip and approached, slowly. “You’re looking better.”  
  
And he was. Arthur looked less like a ghost today than he had the first few days after the return of the bombs. He was still far too skinny, far too pale, and far too bandaged—but his arm had healed, at least. Or, at least, Arthur had learned to work through whatever pain it could be causing him. His eyes were still a little sunken, and still had their heavy bags, but there was some kind of spark—probably a spark of defiance fueled on by the stubborn enemy of bloodstains—glittering in his eyes. Arthur didn’t respond to Alfred’s concession, however, and continued to scrub. It really was a losing battle, though—he couldn’t scrub too hard without upsetting his wounds and burns, and he often had to stop, letting out a ragged sigh, when the pain became too much.   
  
Alfred shifted up beside Arthur, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms and watching Arthur work at the sink. Alfred stayed silent, watching Arthur work for a long moment.   
  
“Well?” Arthur growled, eyes down at the shirt dunked in soapy water. “What is it that you want? Or are you only interested in harassing me?”   
  
Alfred licked his lips, and swallowed. “I’m going back home.”  
  
Arthur froze.   
  
Alfred said, quickly, unsure why he was so quick to clear up the confusion, “Just for a little while. I think. The president wants to talk to Winant, and asked for me to come along as well. Winant says that it won’t take long or anything, but…”  
  
Arthur’s eyes were down, on the shirt, but he did not resume scrubbing immediately. He stayed rod stiff for a moment and then, slowly, picked his scrubber up from where he’d dropped it and resumed the task of pushing the blood from the cotton.   
  
“And why do you feel the need to tell me?” Arthur asked.   
  
Alfred shrugged. “Figured you’d want to know.” Then he added, quickly, “In case there was anything you wanted me to carry on to my president—I could give him a message.”  
  
“You would not wish to repeat any message I have for your boss,” Arthur muttered darkly.   
  
Alfred sighed. “Okay, okay.”   
  
They stood in silence, Alfred staring off towards the opposite wall and Arthur scrubbing. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but it wasn’t quite a comfortable silence, either.   
  
“Geez, get out of the way, let me do it,” Alfred insisted, pressing a hand to Arthur’s shoulder, gently, mindful of Arthur’s scars and wounds and burns. “You can’t get a stain out with such wimpy arm muscles.”   
  
“I beg your pardon,” Arthur muttered, voice clipped and shoulders tensing up in his anger. But Alfred still pushed him—gently—aside, and took up the scrubber. Arthur’s lip twitched and then he scowled. “I don’t need your pity, you—”  
  
“Not pity,” Alfred interrupted as he pulled his jacket off and threw it over one of the kitchen table’s chairs. He rolled up the sleeves of his button down and then began the mighty task of scrubbing at the shirt, his grip firm and his scrubbing not causing any pain in his shoulder at all. “I was just getting sick of seeing such a sad display. Anyway, I’m pretty good at this, ha ha!”   
  
Arthur continued to scowl at Alfred, but Alfred ignored him, attention on his shirt. His tie kept almost slipping into the water, and after an unsuccessful attempt at holding it between his teeth, he finally gave up and pulled the knot of the tie loose, tossing it alongside his jacket. He returned to scrubbing.   
  
“And besides, it’s the least I can do since you’re undoubtedly going to offer me some tea soon or something,” Alfred said.   
  
“I was going to do no such thing,” Arthur sniffed. “And even if I was, I couldn’t provide. I have no tea.”  
  
“Huh? Really?”  
  
“Rationing, boy,” Arthur said, and wandered away to his cupboards, throwing them open to reveal the bare essentials on the shelves, and not much else. “Your country’s aid has finally arrived, though.”  
  
“It has?” Alfred asked, looking up.  
  
“Food-dried eggs, evaporated milk, bacon, beans, and canned meat,” Arthur said, rattling off a list while looking up at the ceiling, calling to mind whatever ship the American aid had arrived on, undoubtedly. “Goodness, boy, hadn’t you heard about it from your ambassador?”   
  
Alfred flushed. “We… don’t get a lot of news from the US.”  
  
“Indeed?” Arthur actually sounded surprised.   
  
“We get most of our information from your people,” Alfred admitted, scratching at his cheek, and frowning. “Cables are really sparse and letters take forever to arrive—if they arrive at all.”   
  
Arthur frowned. “Your boss doesn’t keep you informed?”  
  
Alfred grinned, sheepishly. “Hey, he’s a busy guy.”   
  
“Indeed,” Arthur said again, softer this time, thoughtful. His brow furrowed. “Perhaps you…”   
  
But he trailed off, closing the cupboard up again. He wandered around the kitchen, staring down at his dusty, dirty floor and seemingly becoming embarrassed by it. He grabbed a broom and started sweeping, not looking at Alfred. Alfred did not look at him in turn, just focused entirely on the scrubbing.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“This is worse than a bombing,” Winant muttered beside Alfred before speaking, politely, to the flashing bulbs of news reporters, declining to answer any questions about why he was returning to the United States. Alfred followed Winant as they wove their way through the throng.   
  
Hundreds of people were lined up on the observation deck at New York’s La Guardia Airport, welcoming Winant home. They were there in response to a _New York Times_ article, one that Winant held in his hands now and passed back to Alfred—a front-page story reporting the ambassador’s unexpected, unexplained return to talks with the president and other administrative figures.   
  
Winant, visibly discomforted by the crowd’s cheering and applause, diffidently raised a hat as they walked briskly from the airplane to the terminal. Alfred read over the article, and was not surprised to see the speculation on the reason why Winant had returned—a reason that not even Alfred was privy to. _“There is no doubt that Mr Winant hurried back to tell what England needs most, and to make clear that the need is urgent,”_ Alfred read over a columnist—he checked the name—Anne O’Hare McCormick— _“The war has reached a crisis.”_   
  
Alfred and Winant ducked into a car waiting for them and off they drove, on their way to meet with the president. Winant gripped his hat tightly.   
  
“I will not rest until I make everything clear to the president,” the ambassador said, frowning down at his hat.   
  
“That’s what you’re here for,” Alfred agreed, and would have touched the ambassador’s shoulder, but he seemed too tightly wound for it. “It’ll be fine. Just say what you have to say—what you have to say matters.”   
  
Winant glanced at Alfred, and Alfred grinned at him, his glasses slipping down his nose.   
  
The ambassador offered a weak smile. “Well, I suppose I can’t argue if my country is telling me it’s so.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
At the president’s request, the ambassador and Alfred were staying at the White House. Now that they had stopped moving, now that they had reached where they were meant to be—now that he was back _home_ —Alfred could stop and think.   
  
He’d looked forward to getting away from the relentless dread and terror of living in London. He walked along the White House’s gardens, slowly, collecting his thoughts. He was happy to be home, to reconnect—surrounded by the soil and the people that were his own, only his own, his forever. But, having arrived in the country, at the same time, he felt a strange sense of alienation—an alienation he’d felt in London that now seemed doubled here.   
  
He had no idea what to do—had no idea how to live in a place where the buildings were not gutted like mackerels, where there was no danger of bombs in the dead of night, of firestorms and crumbling building, where there was no danger of starvation and sudden homelessness.   
  
_This’ll definitely piss someone off,_ Alfred thought, morose, _Feeling strange in your own country and feeling as if_ London _was normal._   
  
He should be happy about being back home—  
  
He hoped that Arthur was okay.   
  
Alfred sighed, stopping his walk for a long moment, his mind reeling. He bit at his lip and thought over the words curling through his throat. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing, steady his racing heart.   
  
He should go speak to the First Lady. He hadn’t seen her for a long time—she would help him feel at home again.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
There was a knock at Alfred’s (guest) bedroom door.   
  
Alfred looked up. “Yeah, it’s open.”  
  
The door opened and the ambassador stuck his head in, and smiled when he caught Alfred’s eye. Alfred brightened up, too—  
  
It was strange, to go so long without seeing the ambassador. Alfred wasn’t used to having time to himself—if he wasn’t running around London or visiting Arthur to scrub shirts for him, he was usually in the embassy spending his day helping or talking with Winant. They’d spent almost the entire day separate from one another and despite a good talk with the First Lady, Alfred had spent his afternoon alone.   
  
“Ambassador,” Alfred said, hoping out of his chair. He grinned. “Hey, what is it?”   
  
Winant removed his hat, and sighed. “I’m waiting to speak with the president for now.”   
  
“You still haven’t seen him?” Alfred asked, dropping back down into his chair. Winant joined him in the other chair, on the other end of the rounded table.   
  
The ambassador shook his head. “Now is a very busy time for the president. I understand that some things must have the priority.”  
  
Winant spoke steadily, held his hat steady, but Alfred could see the touch of passion in Winant’s eyes—could see how much he wanted to speak with the president, to tell him all the things he’d bottled up, just waiting, longing, to tell the president of the United States.   
  
“I have, however, been speaking with some of the chiefs of staff and the cabinet members,” Winant said, and a touch of a smile curved his lips. “All this time, I’d wondered…”   
  
“Wondered what?”  
  
“How the administration stood on all this,” Winant said. “Even though the president does not seem to feel the urgency of how things fare on the other side of the ocean, most of the administration here believes the US should protect the British convoys, to protect against all the shipping loses.”   
  
Alfred perked up a little, curious. He hadn’t—expected that.   
  
“Really?” he asked.   
  
Winant nodded. “That is not to say the president is not deeply concerned with the situation.”  
  
“Of course,” Alfred agreed. “He just…”  
  
“Won’t take the steps,” Winant said with a sigh. “He is making efforts, though—small steps.”  
  
“Like what?”   
  
“American supplies go directly to British troops in the Middle East now,” Winant said, “They don’t have to stop over in England for British reshipment.”   
  
“I guess it can’t be helped, since all the port cities are so bombed right now,” Alfred said, sobering up a little. He listened raptly to Winant—he’d been so disconnected from his own people, he couldn’t know what anyone was thinking or doing—  
  
Knowing that, on the other side of the ocean, in his home, there were people making efforts—it was reassuring, at least a little. Alfred tried to squash the feelings, but they were there.   
  
“He’s also permitted the repair of damaged British warships in American shipyards. And British pilots are being trained on American airfields,” Winant said. Then added, “Both these things were recommended by Mr. Harriman.”   
  
“Oh,” Alfred said. “Well, those are all good things, aren’t they? They’re steps.”   
  
“They’re certainly steps. And yet… I don’t know if the US can claim to be neutral in such ways,” Winant said, evenly, giving Alfred a hefty stare. Alfred flushed a little. But Winant only said, “We do not extend these courtesies to the axis powers. We’re crippling Japan at the moment.”   
  
“Yeah, well,” Alfred said, and trailed off, shrugging one shoulder. “It is what it is.”   
  
“Hm,” Winant said, still studying Alfred’s face. Alfred hated that his ears were burning, and were probably bright pink along with the rest of his face and neck. He pushed his glasses up his nose.   
  
“Anyway. That’s all great… I mean. Maybe—it’ll really help them, right? The British?”   
  
“It will,” Winant agreed. “But will it be enough?”   
  
Alfred frowned.  
  
“The president has also enlarged the security zone,” Winant continued before Alfred had to answer the question. “He did so back in April.”  
  
“I can’t believe we haven’t heard about it,” Alfred said, his frown deepening.   
  
“News can get waylaid. You know that. And we shouldn’t have to rely on Mr. Churchill for information about our own country.” Winant sighed. “I’m sure that… he had spoken of these things, during our many… conversations.”  
  
Winant shifted, uncomfortable.  
  
He cleared his throat. “But we’ve had so many that it must have slipped my mind, as well. Despite it being very good news.”   
  
“So…”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Are—how big is the security zone now?”   
  
“US ships and planes can now patrol more than two thirds of the ocean between the two countries. As far as Greenland.”  
  
Alfred nodded.  
  
“They will not fire unless fired upon first, however,” Winant added.   
  
Alfred nodded again. “That’s… all?” Alfred asked, looking up cautiously. “All that?”   
  
“Yes,” Winant said. He fiddled with his hat, and stood, with a sigh. “But the men closest to the president are baffled and alarmed by what they see to be passivity and reluctance to take bolder action.”   
  
Alfred stood, following Winant as the man walked towards the door of Alfred’s bedroom. Alfred glanced at the clock on the wall, and figured that Winant must have a meeting somewhere in the White House.   
  
“The president…” Winant began, quietly, keeping his head down as he studied the handle of the bedroom’s door. “He is waiting for public opinion to lead and public opinion is waiting for a lead from the President.”   
  
Alfred felt a chill curl down his spine. “Then what…”  
  
“ _‘All aid short of war’_ ,” Winant said, quietly, “is no longer enough to rescue England.” He sighed. “But I believe the president is loathed to enter this war. That much is clear. He would rather follow public opinion than lead it.”  
  
There was a long silence. Winant thumbed at the door handle.  
  
Alfred frowned. “He’s… waiting. Isn’t he?”  
  
“Alfred?”  
  
“For a _something_ that would take the responsibility from his shoulders,” Alfred said quietly, looking down at his feet. “He’s saying that he can’t have his own opinions, he has to follow what the people say.” There was a ball in his throat—he spoke of the president, he spoke of himself. “He’s waiting for something to give him an excuse to protect British convoys or even to declare war… but he won’t admit that he wants it himself, or won’t admit what he thinks is best. Because he… won’t. He’s determined—to preserve national unity.”  
  
Winant smiled, wan, and lifted a hand to touch Alfred’s shoulder. He rested it there for a short moment, and then squeezed.  
  
And then he stepped away and slipped through the door, leaving Alfred to his own thoughts.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Alfred poked his head into a room to see if the president was there. He’d been doing that for the past few hours, just to help pass the time and on the off-chance that maybe he actually would see his boss for the first time in months. At the very least, it was interesting to revisit places he hadn’t seen in a long time. This room was the most recent of his excursions, and he hadn’t really expected to find anyone. So he was surprised when a scattering of military personnel looked back.   
  
“Oh, sorry, I’m just looking for the president,” Alfred said, blinking a few times.  
  
Some of the men turned away, and Alfred heard one say, “It’s just that ambassador’s aide.”   
  
Alfred paused, frowning, not sure what to make of the tone of such a statement—it almost sounded like a dismissal. Alfred could peered into the room. He could only identify four of the men there, the civilian defense chiefs—Stimson and Knox—and the military chiefs—Marshall and Stark. The others, though high-ranking, were unknown to Alfred. And, as it would seem, Alfred was unknown to them—just someone who worked for Winant.   
  
Alfred slipped from the room, but stayed pressed against the wall outside, curiosity getting the better of him.   
  
The men inside stayed silent for a long moment until it seemed the conversation Alfred had previously interrupted resumed itself: “Whether or not the public opinion is blurred and confused, that doesn’t matter. The congress and the military are _not_ confused. Almost all the members of Congress oppose going to war and naval convoying even if it were to, somehow, prevent Hitler from defeating them.”   
  
Another of the men—Alfred didn’t recognize the voice—agreed: “We’ve already gone too far in helping the British. There are… doubts about Britain’s capacity to wage war and to actually survive. Just look at their defeats in Greece and North Africa. Anyone can see that it’s only a matter of time before it falls.”   
  
The first resumed as Alfred pressed further against the wall, greedily drinking in any and all news. “World opinion is that the British are done. You hear it in South America, in the Far East, and from West Africa. They’re done. We should cut everything and worry about _our_ country now, not some drooping, soon-to-be-occupied islands. What have they ever done for us, huh?”   
  
One man spoke, Knox, perhaps, Alfred couldn’t be sure: “It doesn’t do us any good to plan all our movements on the eventuality that the British will fail. It doesn’t make military sense to—”  
  
“Even if we were to join the war, our military isn’t _ready_. We’re badly equipped and undermanned as is. And pooling all our resources to train _their_ men isn’t helping.”   
  
“That’s necessary to provide them the ability to survive—”  
  
“They’ll be fine on their own. And if not, then they’ll be defeated. It isn’t our problem. Europe isn’t our problem.”   
  
“We’ve already made the commitment of Lend-Lease, and—”  
  
“Oh, yes, some dismal amount of food. But no weapons, planes, tanks, or any other material. They aren’t being produced in large numbers here, and even if there were, there aren’t enough ships to carry it all to Britain.”   
  
There was a sigh. “It’s true. American industries are resisting to a large-scale war production conversion.”  
  
A snort. “Yes, good luck convincing Henry Ford to fill orders for the British.”  
  
“He has the right idea,” another one said. “The US can’t afford to come out of isolationism. This isn’t our fight, and we’re making it our fight by cozying up to a dying country. Do you really think that Germany is going to think we’re neutral if we keep it up? We aren’t sending war materials to _Japan_ , so why should we send it to Britain?”   
  
“The efforts have to be stepped up. We are deceiving the world. We’re advertising to the world—to both sides of the ocean—that there is in fact a steady stream of lend-lease war materials. When, in reality, there is little or none. While we boast that we are at enmity with Hitler alongside the British, we’re doing a disgracefully small share of the job.”   
  
“It isn’t our problem.”  
  
“We’ve made it our problem, and we should damn well step up for it!”   
  
“It’s better to just be as uninvolved as we can. The British have their own fights. We have no need to do anything. What we’re doing now is enough for the British. We’ve given them Lend-Lease. We’ve given them aide. But this isn’t our fight, and it’ll work itself out.”  
  
“It’s true. This is enough for them. The president is making the right decision here.”  
  
“But if we—”  
  
“They’ll be fine on their own. There’s no reason for America to get involved. And we won’t be involved. Congress will never declare war. The President will never urge them to. There’s no reason for us to get involved in another war in Europe.”   
  
The men continued to bicker amongst themselves, their words escalating occasionally and falling down to hushed whispers of discontent. Alfred listened, and felt something shifting and snapping inside his gut. His brows furrowed, and, for one brief moment, all he felt was the agony and frustration of all the people—of Arthur—whom he’d left behind.   
  
Washington, with its unwillingness to admit to a possibility of British defeat or, worse, acting as if they were already defeated, was like a completely different world to Alfred. And there was something inherently wrong with that, inherently wrong with feeling ostracized and isolated from his own country. Alfred shook a little, gripping his hands into fists and biting at his lip, trying to suppress the curl of emotions in the base of his throat, but he couldn’t. It was either the dismissal, acting as if it was already gone. Or the wishful thinking, the idiotic optimism, too much left to chance, and too much ‘too little, too late’.   
  
“You don’t realize the gravity,” Alfred whispered to his feet. “You haven’t _seen_ it, you haven’t seen him—”  
  
He cut himself off, inhaling sharply and feeling his body tense up.   
  
And then, before he could stop himself, he threw the door open again. The men all froze, alarmed at the sudden entrance, as Alfred stomped into the room, knowing his face was dark and not caring—knowing that his brows were furrowed and he was scowling.   
  
“Either we have an interest in the outcome of this war or we don’t—if we have, why do we not realize that every day we delay direct participation, we are taking an extreme risk that either the war will be lost or the difficulty of winning will be too much?”   
  
The men seemed surprised by not only Alfred’s sudden entrance, but the passion with which he spoke—almost shouting. His body was shaking and his hands were clenched into fists, but he didn’t dare stop.   
  
“England’s strength is bleeding!” Alfred said, firmly, glaring around the room because he wasn’t sure to whom he was meant to send his displeasure.   
  
And then, just as quickly as he’d stormed into the room, he realized that he’d just _stormed into a room._ At Arthur’s defense. He paled a little, and straightened up, clearing his throat.   
  
“Um.”   
  
The men continued to stare at him, bewildered.  
  
And then one man’s expression darkened. “We don’t need a bleeding heart lecture from one of Winant’s men.”   
  
Alfred’s face tightened up, and, shamefully, he realized he was flushing.   
  
“I don’t—” Alfred began.   
  
“We all know how you feel about the situation,” another said, barely suppressing a sneer. “If you had your way, we’d be at war this very afternoon. But in your desire for escalation, you’re failing to realize the complexity of our situation.”   
  
Alfred’s hands curled into fists.   
  
The military officer continued, “It’d be better for us to back away from our involvement. The British can take care of themselves and should have to. They’re an empire. They should be able to feed their own people and train their own people.”  
  
“You don’t know anything,” Alfred shouted. “You haven’t been there—you don’t know—”  
  
“You need to leave,” another man said, stepping forward and grabbing Alfred’s shoulder, pushing him towards the door. “You are not part of the war department, so you must leave at once. Your ambassador is undoubtedly waiting for you.”  
  
And thus, unceremoniously, Alfred was shoved from the room.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Winant was fidgeting beside him. Alfred looked over to him, and nodded his head. “It’s okay, ambassador.”  
  
Winant nodded, vaguely, only half-hearing Alfred’s words. Armed with firsthand knowledge of England’s perilous position, Winant was waiting, earnestly, for the president to enter the room so he could, finally, tell him firsthand the necessity of declaring war. He’d already met with some of the other administration officials, and Alfred had heard some of his words—heard the forcefulness of which Winant spoke, hardly taking pause to speak, hardly tripping over his words at all.   
  
The president entered the room. Everyone rose to their feet as Roosevelt approached and Winant was as tense as Alfred had ever seen him before, back straight, chin held high, brows furrowed.   
  
“Mr. President,” Winant began.   
  
There were a few formalities to go through, some introductions, some shifting around of the room as everyone settled in. But the entire time, Winant remained tense, determined, never once taking his eyes away from the ambassador.   
  
When the president nodded for Winant to speak, Winant began without much preamble: “The British are facing a desperate future. They urgently need military aid, particularly planes and tanks, as well as US naval protection for convoys. Not just to alert the British of attacks, but to _protect._ ”   
  
Alfred watched between Winant and Roosevelt, gauging the president’s reactions to the words and staring up at Winant as, passionate and desperate, he didn’t relax at all.   
  
“There is no truth to the current rumors that Britain is on the verge of seeking a negotiated peace,” Winant said quickly and Alfred hadn’t even known such rumors existed. “But,” Winant said, “If the US fails to provide enough aid… their will to resist, resolute as it may be, might begin to weaken.”   
  
The president didn’t respond.  
  
Winant, desperate, added, “We must not wait too long, Mr. President.”   
  
But the president did not respond. He stayed silent, face grim, but thoughtful. Winant waited, body tense, shaking just a little. Alfred leaned forward a little, having no idea what his expression must look like, but knowing that he, too, was desperate to hear with the president had to say.   
  
Then the president licked his lips, cleared his throat, and turned to an aide hovering by his sides. “Order four thousand marines to Iceland. They will take over its defense from the British.”   
  
There was a chilled pause.  
  
The president continued, “Alert the navy that I have authorized protection of US merchant vessels and troopships as far as Iceland—instruct them that they are to shoot on sight, if necessary.”   
  
The aide scribbled hurriedly on a pad of paper, nodding. Then left the room.  
  
“Sir,” Winant said, softly, though his voice was still tight. “What of British convoys? Shouldn’t they be protected?”   
  
The president shook his head. “The British are not my responsibility. It will remain as it has.”   
  
Winant’s shoulders slumped. “Sir, if I may—”  
  
“It’s decided,” the president interrupted.   
  
Alfred almost started to stand up, “Sir, I think—”  
  
“America,” the president interrupted, firmly, and Alfred froze, “will not enter the war. Not unless the public opinion changes.”   
  
“But there are many people who want—” Alfred began.  
  
“The number has dropped, recently,” the president said.   
  
“It’s because they don’t realize the immediacy of the situation!” Alfred protested. “Sir, if you made more of an effort to explain how dire the situation across the ocean is, if you explained how it’s an immediate threat to our security, then—”  
  
“You fail to recognize the complexity of this situation,” the president interrupted and, for his part, did look apologetic. “There are more factors involved.”  
  
“But it surely is good to educate the people, otherwise they’ll fall into apathy, just like—” _like me_ , a little voice whispered. But not like him—he’d never been fully apathetic. He’d strived to convince himself that he hated Arthur—that was not neutrality.   
  
His chest constricted.   
  
“Sir, I…” he trailed off, realizing belatedly that the president was not interrupting him, but looking at him calmly, waiting for him to continue. He struggled. “Sir, I…”  
  
“What I believe Alfred wishes to say,” Winant interrupted, gently, placing a hand on Alfred’s shoulder and squeezing. “Is that if people understood, fully, just what is going on in England, they would be able to make a more informed decision. Following a decision based on ignorance, Mr. President, is not a true decision.”   
  
Roosevelt was quiet for a moment, and shook his head. “I cannot do anything about that.”   
  
Before he could quite stop himself, Alfred was standing, hands curled into fists. “Why are you so content to do _nothing?_ ”  
  
He was shouting, he could tell by the way everyone stared at him in surprise, by the way Winant reached for his shoulder.  
  
But Alfred jerked away from the ambassador’s touch, shaking.  
  
“Why are you so content to be so passive and timid when everything is falling out of control? Why do you do nothing while they call out for your help—our help! They hate to beg but they’re _begging_ for it. They need it! And if they don’t get it, then England will—then Arthur will… he’ll—!”   
  
He inhaled sharply, eyes flying wide open. He snapped out of the daze, realized in his shock what he was doing—raising his voice against his own people, his _president_. He was raising his voice for someone whom he’d fought so hard to get away from, centuries ago. Someone he had resisted, belittled, hated. Someone he’d never wanted to see again—  
  
He did not want to picture it—Arthur disappearing. But seeing him draped in the bathtub, falling to his knees, crying out, standing in the rubble of his people—it was something that Alfred could picture, something he never wanted to picture.  
  
Alfred’s voice hitched, he felt himself choke up, just slightly, as he struggled to speak.   
  
“Alfred, go calm down,” Winant whispered in his ear, and pushed him away slightly. Alfred tottered away, wandering vaguely to the far end of the room.   
  
As he passed, he heard one of the military men in the room whisper, “He’s been manipulated by the British. They do that, you know. That’s how we got dragged into the fight in the last European war.”   
  
Alfred ignored them, though he felt the urge to protest rise in his gut. He breathed out, slumping against the wall, pressing against it with his shoulder and curling into himself. He’d been gone for too long. He felt too disconnected from his own people. Too disconnected from everything that was going on around him. It was all too much. He couldn’t—  
  
He breathed in and out. His heart was stuttering in his chest, his lungs constricted.   
  
He remembered, in vivid detail, the sounds of sirens, the screams, the shrapnel, the bombs, the bombs, the bombs—he could remember, in vivid detail, the crumbling houses, the starving bodies, the haunted eyes. He could remember it all, he could remember—  
  
He knew he wanted to help them. He knew he did. But his hands were tied, he was stuck. He was drifting. He was tethered. He was wandering.   
  
He didn’t know anymore.   
  
He clenched his eyes shut and breathed out again, trying to settle his shallow breathing and unable to. He cursed softly, under his breath, and then straightened.   
  
The men were continuing their talk across the room. Winant was speaking, swiftly, undoubtedly describing the situation across the Atlantic. Alfred watched them, body shaking. Roosevelt interrupted occasionally to ask a question or issue an order to an aide, and Winant was quick to take up the conversation and continue speaking.  
  
Alfred felt far too cold, far too lost.   
  
His mind drifted—memories of Arthur. During the war—before the war. The brief moments when he’d seen him in the past. The Great War. Years sporadically down the line of the nineteenth century. The eighteenth—  
  
He didn’t want to think anymore.   
  
He breathed out, straightened again, adjusting his tie and smoothing his hands—sweaty, when had they become sweaty?—over the front of his shirt. And then he walked back over towards the small meeting. He sat down, glumly, silently, beside the ambassador, keeping his head down. He couldn’t look the president in the eye.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Sit down, Alfred,” the president instructed when Alfred entered the room. He’d been summoned to the oval office to speak with Roosevelt. He sat behind his desk, hands folded. It was a sunny day outside—a warm June day.   
  
“Sir, if this is about yesterday, then I—”  
  
Roosevelt held up his hand. Alfred fell into a morose silence.   
  
The president did not move to speak for a long moment, simply sitting behind his desk and staring at Alfred. Alfred squirmed in his seat, unsure what to do, whether he should say anything. He sat there, feeling miserable, ashamed—anything. His mind was whirling. His gut was twisting. His heart was swimming.  
  
“Mr. Pr—”  
  
“It’s alright,” the president said. He did not smile—he was not the type to smile, often. He surveyed Alfred’s expression for a long moment, and then leaned back. “I’d wondered what would happen, if you went overseas.”  
  
Alfred’s brow furrowed. “Why did you send me?”  
  
Roosevelt leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his desk and surveying Alfred. “I was curious.”  
  
“About…?” Alfred prompted.  
  
“A few things. I know of Mr. Winant’s ideas on Britain. But I knew of your position, as well. I was curious to see what you would make of the situation. And, as the country, I’d wondered if it would affect public opinion.”  
  
“Did it?” Alfred asked.  
  
“You tell me.”   
  
Alfred didn’t know what to say, so he remained silent.   
  
“But I’ve thought often on it, since our meeting,” Roosevelt said. “Mr. Winant is leaving this afternoon. But perhaps you shouldn’t return there.”   
  
Alfred looked up, sharply.  
  
The president met his gaze evenly. “Unless you wish to.”   
  
“I…”  
  
He trailed off. The president waited a moment, and then resumed: “Some of my members of the war department—those who know what you are—suggest that perhaps England’s ‘country’ has done something to you.”   
  
Alfred frowned.  
  
Roosevelt folded his hands. “They suggest to me that you have been manipulated somehow by him, to have such passion for the cause. Do you believe it might have truth to it, ‘America’?”   
  
Alfred was silent for a moment, thinking—his thoughts whirling. Was Arthur manipulating him? He could remember their first meeting—the argument at Whitehall—when Arthur had stressed that he would die. He thought, perhaps, that could have been a manipulation. But he remembered all the times after that—  
  
The way Arthur held his gaze, as the bombs hit, the way he stared at him and did not waver. How he stayed strong and determined, blinking his eyes to clear the tears and looking away in Bristol. How he, no matter what, clung to his pride and his determination, even when Alfred could see it seeping out of him.   
  
But he remembered the moment in the House of Commons. He remembered the way the tears slid down his grimy face, the way he clung to Alfred and refused to let go. Perhaps someone could have thought of that as manipulation.   
  
But even in their happiest years together, before the Revolution, Arthur never cried. Even when they began to fight, back in those days—whenever they fought, whenever Arthur attempted to make him change his mind, to guilt him—he never cried. There was only one moment that Alfred could remember where Arthur had cried—  
  
Alfred shook his head. “No. There’s no truth to that. He’s not one to do something like that. Arthur’s… honest. He doesn’t flaunt vulnerability like a weapon.”  
  
“Arthur,” the president repeated.  
  
Alfred froze for a moment. And then nodded. “Yeah. Arthur.”   
  
“I see,” the president said.   
  
They sat in silence.  
  
Alfred inhaled deeply, met the president’s gaze, and exhaled. “I want to go back. I want to be there for him.”   
  
“Are you certain?”  
  
“Yes,” Alfred said, with no hesitation.   
  
The president nodded. “Then you should let the ambassador know of your decision. But I expect you to return for your birthday.”  
  
Alfred nodded and stood up. “Thank you, Mr. President.”   
  
The president waved his hand, a dismissal, and Alfred left the room—hurrying to find Winant, hurrying to get back to England.   
  
To Arthur.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**  
  
\- In April and May, the promised Lend-Lease aid finally began to arrive. Food-dried eggs, evaporated milk, bacon, beans, and canned meat were among the supplies unloaded, but there was a distinct lack of tanks and weapons. Weapons, planes, tanks, and other material still were not being produced in large numbers in the United States, and there were not enough ships to carry to Britain the trickle of armaments that had come off the assembly line. Despite the administration’s urging, American industries continued to resist a large-scale conversion to war production. What’s more, several industrial tycoons, like car manufacturer Henry Ford, were rabid isolationists and reused to fill orders for the British.   
  
\- Indeed, the Lend-Lease situation was so dismal in the summer of 1941 that William Whitney, one of Harriman’s top aides in London, quit in protest over America’s failures to do more. “We are deceiving the people on both sides of the Atlantic by allowing them to think that there is today a stream of lease-lend war materials crossing the Atlantic, when in fact there is little or none,” Whitney wrote in his letter of resignation. “My view is that the Administration… should show Congress and the people, that while we are boasting that we are at enmity with Hitler alongside Britain we’re doing a disgracefully small share of the job.” (This quote is attributed to Random Military Guy #5)  
  
\- Through their interactions through cables, Roosevelt revealed to 10 Downing that the president did not share the same sense of urgency felt in Britain. In fact, he did not share this urgency felt throughout his administration. At the very least, in the view of the US chiefs of staff and most of the cabinet members, US protection must be given to British convoys to staunch the hemorrhaging shipping loses. At the very least to disallow the sinking of US goods in the Atlantic. His administration counseled Roosevelt in such things, but Roosevelt disregarded the advice and rejected Churchill’s plea for US belligerency. The men closest to Roosevelt were baffled by his “passivity and reluctance to take bolder action.” The common consensus and understanding was that the president was waiting for public opinion to lead him, and public opinion was waiting for lead from the president. Others sensed that Roosevelt was waiting/hoping for something that would take the responsibility off him—waiting for a reason to go to war.   
  
\- This was not to say that the president was not deeply concerned with the situation for the British. But he was only willing to take small steps for their aid. He did, indeed, issue the orders to let US supplies go directly to the British in the Middle East, in order to bypass the destruction of the British isles’ shipping yards and the danger of U-boat encounters. He also permitted the repair of damaged British warships in US shipyards (recommended by Averell Harriman) and the training of British pilots on US airfields.   
  
\- In addition to this, he also enlarged the country’s self-proclaimed security zone in the Atlantic, authorizing US ships and planes to patrol more than two thirds of the watery expanse between the US and Britain. When war began in 1939 for Europe, the US created a non-belligerncy area that extended three hundred miles from both coasts of the US and was monitored by US forces. Roosevelt’s decision to widen the Atlantic zone in April of 1941 made it possible for US ships and planes to patrol as far as Greenland and to warn the British if they spotted German U-boats or surface raiders. Despite this, however, the president emphasized the importance of shooting only if shot upon first. This increase in surveillance was very helpful for the British but did little to stop the U-boat’s destruction. The US patrols were unable to attack German vessels, only contact the British about the attacks. In the first three weeks of May, German U-boats sank twenty British merchant ships in the extended US security zone.   
  
\- The president was waiting for public opinion to lead him and, indeed, it was very hard to tell what US citizens wanted in the spring of 1941. Gallup polls showed overwhelming support of raid to Britain, but, poll numbers evenly divided over whether the Navy should protect British ships. More than 80% of USAmericans opposed US entry into the war to rescue the UK, although roughly the same percentage believed that the US would have to defend itself against Germany eventually. In the end, however, the overwhelming feeling in the US was simply… apathy.   
  
\- In the view of those in favor of intervening in the war, these poll results and apathy showed Roosevelt’s failure to educate the USAmerican public. Few US citizens understood the danger posed to the US by Germany, and very little understood that that danger was an immediate one, not one for the far future. Few understood that, should the UK fall, there would be no major power left to stop Hitler. The people as a whole simply did not understand that if Nazi Germany gained control of Europe, Asia, Africa, and the high seas, it would have command of the entire world, practically. At the very least, the US would be strangled for supplies, unable to trade with Germany. Belle Roosevelt, the wife of Eleanor Roosevelt’s cousin, Kermit, and a close friend to the president and his wife, confronted FDR about his reluctance to educate the public. When she asked him why he did not simply tell the USAmerican public the realities of this war, he told her that she, and other interventionalist critics, did not understand the “complexity of the situation he faced”.   
  
\- And, indeed, the situation was complex. Though public opinion was confused and divided, Congress was not. 80% of Congress opposed naval convoying, even if “necessary to prevent a British defeat by Hitler.” And while most of the major figures in FDR’s administration were urging him to be more militant, others, whose doubts about Britain’s capacity to wage war and its ability to survive were strengthened by its recent defeats (in Greece and North Africa), believed the president had already gone too far in helping the British.   
  
\- “World opinion is that [The British] are licked… We hear it from South America, from the Far East, and from West Africa” was actually written by Breckinridge Long (an assistant secretary of Secretary of State Cordell Hull), in his diary. It’s been attributed, in this fic, to Random Military Guy #1.   
  
\- The War Department was filled with naysayers. More than any other branch in US government, the War Department was overwhelmingly anti-British (as was the US military in general, especially the army). Although the civilian defense chiefs—Stimson and Knox—and the military chiefs—Marshall and Stark—favored a more aggressive approach to helping the British, many high-ranking officers opposed such measures and stood with Congress in believing the president had already gone too far in his aid. The War Department did all its strategy around the assumption that the British had already lost or would lose in the very near future.   
  
\- Even if the militaries weren’t radically anti-British, it wouldn’t have mattered: the US military was overwhelmingly undermanned and badly equipped.   
  
\- For the US citizens in London, the spring and summer of 1941 was one of the most frustrating parts of the war. People like Winant and Harriman were, in effect, serving two governments. While they were US citizens, they worked closely with Churchill and the British government and, after spending so many months in London, understood the weight of the challenge and, above all else, wanted the UK to be saved. Raymond Lee, one of the most stalwart proponents of the British cause in the US embassy said: “There is still too much wishful thinking, too much idiot optimism, too much being left to chance, too much for the democratic ‘too little too late’. It is only by being here that one realizes the actuality and pressure of the emergency.” Averell Harriman was even more irate: “It is impossible for me to understand the ostrich-like attitude” of the US. “Either we have an interest in the outcome of the war or we have not.” (Harriman’s attitude is attributed to Alfred in this chapter.)   
  
\- On May 30, 1941, Winant returned to the US for a mysterious purpose. He would not answer why he had returned to the US, only that he was there to meet the president. (He actually did say that all the flashing bulbs of cameras was “worse than a bombing.”) The excerpts from newspapers are real excerpts.   
  
\- Mail and cables were unreliable during the war years. The majority of Winant’s and Harriman’s information came from 10 Downing and Churchill.   
  
\- In Washington, Winant, at Roosevelt’s invitation, stayed at the White House. In his meetings with the president and other administration officials, he forcefully emphasized the desperate future facing Britain and its people. They urgently needed military aid, particularly planes and tanks, as well as US naval protection for convoys. There was no truth to current rumors that Britain was on the verge of seeking a negotiated peace, the ambassador said. But if the US failed to provide enough aid, he warned, the British will to resist, resolute as it was, might begin to weaken. “We must not wait too long.” Armed with firsthand knowledge of Britain’s perilous position, Winant, who, in the words of General Raymond Lee, was ”straining every nerve and resorting to every expediency” to bring the US into the conflict, was determined to press Roosevelt and his administration as hard as he could. In a memo to Foreign Office subordinates, Anthony Eden wrote: “Winant asked me today to consider what, short of war, the USA could do to help us… I had the impression he would not at all mind if the proposals entailed risk of war.”  
  
\- Roosevelt responded—kind of. He authorized to dispatch of four thousand marines to Iceland to take over its defense from the British, a step that placed American troops nearer Britain in case of an invasion. He also authorized naval protection of US merchant vessels and troopships as far as Iceland, with instructions to shoot on sight if necessary; British convoys remained unprotected.   
  
\- In public, Roosevelt downplayed the urgency of the ambassador’s visit.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred returns to England for a short while, and things start to move forward - except for, maybe, himself.
> 
> Time stamp: June and July of 1941.

The trip back to England was slow, and Alfred spent most of his time fidgeting and shifting, though he couldn’t quite place the reason for why. If Winant noticed, he was kind enough not to comment on it, but most likely, his mind was elsewhere. He stared off into the middle distance without speaking a word to Alfred. Alfred was okay with this, lost in his own thoughts.   
  
When they arrived at the base in Scotland, there was a plane waiting for them from the Prime Minister, with instructions to go immediately to Chequers, where Churchill was waiting.   
  
“He must be anxious to hear how the meeting went,” Alfred said, if only for something to break the silence with.   
  
Winant nodded. “It would appear as such.”   
  
“The President downplayed the meeting in the news,” Alfred said. “So I guess he’s worried or something.”  
  
“Or hopeful,” Winant said, with a small smile.   
  
The trip to Chequers was quick and soundless, and Alfred found himself and Winant ushered hurriedly into the familiar estate. He stood awkwardly in the front hall as Churchill grabbed Winant by the shoulders and ushered him away, with only a quick, curt nod to Alfred. Alfred stood there, unsure what to do, and considering going off to find Churchill’s family, when he heard a door open somewhere in the depths of the house, and footsteps.   
  
And Alfred didn’t really have time to prepare before Arthur turned the corner and their eyes locked, and for one brief moment Alfred felt his heart kick up and he couldn’t really understand why—  
  
“Ar—England,” Alfred said, grinning despite himself. “Hey, long time no see.”   
  
“So you came back after all,” Arthur said, voice soft but echoing in the large front hall. He walked briskly, approaching Alfred until they were standing relatively close. He shifted, uneasily, before clearing his throat and letting out a gruff, “Welcome back.”   
  
“Yeah, thanks,” Alfred said, looking away as he dug around in his bag. “I got something for you, actually.”  
  
“Indeed?” Arthur asked, sounding impossibly mystified. Alfred glanced up at him to find Arthur staring at him, incredulous and uncertain. Alfred quickly ducked his head, digging around before he could second-guess himself, though he felt the blush creeping up his neck.   
  
“Yeah!” he said, and then straightened, holding out an orange for Arthur.   
  
Arthur’s eyes nearly bugged out of his skull upon seeing the fruit. But he did not reach out to take it.   
  
“I know it’s been a while since you guys’ve seen stuff like this, so…” Alfred trailed off, feeling, for a moment, unsure. But then he gestured with his hand, holding the orange out to Arthur. “Come on, don’t be shy. I know you want it.”  
  
Arthur’s expression wobbled, and then he was smiling—a soft, crinkling smile. Alfred was completely disarmed by it as Arthur reached out and took the orange, staring down at it with such a thankful smile that Alfred was momentarily ashamed that it was only food he was giving Arthur, that something so small could get such a reaction out of him.   
  
He’d picked the orange up on a whim, haphazard and rash, without really thinking. And yet—  
  
Arthur was peeling the orange. He said, softly, around the citrus motes erupting from the peeled skin, “Thank you, America.”   
  
“You’re welcome,” Alfred said, feeling his throat go dry.   
  
Alfred watched Arthur eat for a moment, watched him raise the slices of orange to his mouth and chew, looking as if he hadn’t had something so sweet in years—and he probably hadn’t. Alfred looked away.   
  
“Um,” he said, blushing, “It’s not as good as an orange, but…”  
  
He dug around in his bag, pulling out a rather large pack of matches, and a pack of American cigarettes. Arthur stared at them, and then reached out his hand with much less hesitation. His fingers curled around the two gifts, lingering there, as if unsure to really draw back and take it. But Alfred dropped his hand away when Arthur’s hand lingered for too long.   
  
“I remember you wanted some, before, so, yeah. I’ve got a bunch of extra, too, so if you ever run out, just let me know, okay?”  
  
Arthur was quiet, and only nodded his head. He finished his orange, but still held the peel in his hand. He looked at the cigarettes and matches in his other hand for a long moment, and then turned his head, just slightly, gesturing towards the depths of the house.   
  
“Shall we?” he asked.   
  
Alfred nodded, and followed Arthur as Arthur led him through the house and out to the back of the estate. Arthur strolled across the veranda, looking as if he belonged there, as if he were perfectly at ease—as if those ragged, stitched clothes weren’t hiding months of scars and wounds and burns. Alfred sat down, numb, on the bench he’d seen Arthur sitting on before, on his first visit here, and Arthur sat to join him.   
  
Arthur tapped the pack of cigarettes against his leg, and peeled the pack open, pressing his mouth to the sticks until one stuck, and drawing it out. Alfred watched him, but whenever Arthur’s eyes flickered towards his, Alfred shifted away his gaze, looking out over the hills, the trees, the sky. It was a nice day—and that worried Alfred. He wondered if the bombs would return.  
  
Before he could slip too deeply into his own thoughts, there was a pack of cigarettes held out under his nose.   
  
He turned his eyes to Arthur. “Huh? But they’re yours.”  
  
“Relax, lad,” Arthur said, and already had his own cigarette lit—Alfred could smell the blue smoke as it curled around their heads. Arthur offered a small, hesitant smile, one that didn’t quite fit on his face. “You said you had more elsewhere, so you’ll simply owe me one for later.”  
  
Alfred sighed through his nose, and curled his hand around the cigarette pack, ignoring that he could feel Arthur’s fingertips just so, and pressed his mouth to the cigarettes. One stuck, and he drew back. Arthur held out a match for him.   
  
They smoked in silence after that, neither one speaking to the other, but Alfred, somehow, drew comfort in having Arthur there—having Arthur sit there, back straight, posture perfect, one leg bent over the other. But his eyes were back towards London, he realized, just as they had been before.   
  
Alfred looked off in that direction, too, but he couldn’t see anything. Arthur was feeling it, then.   
  
“Ah,” Arthur said suddenly, and stood. Alfred lifted his eyes, surprised, as Arthur walked away briskly.   
  
He was just about to get up to follow him when he realized that Arthur was only seizing the ashtray off the outside table and returning. He brushed aside the orange peel sitting between them and set the ashtray down. Then he tapped his cigarette, turned his eyes to London, and resumed smoking.  
  
Alfred watched him though. Watched the curve of his nose, the slope of his jaw line, the shell of his ear. They smoked in silence.   
  
“I’ll bring more next time,” he said suddenly, after a long few minutes of silence. “When I go back.”  
  
“You’ll be going back again?” Arthur asked, calm, not turning to look at Alfred.   
  
“Yeah. For my birthday.” Alfred watched Arthur’s back straighten, just slightly. Alfred cleared his throat. “So, I mean. Anything you want. Just let me know and I can bring it.”   
  
“You wouldn’t like to give what it is I want from you,” Arthur said, voice soft. He turned his head, catching Alfred’s eyes for half a moment before he flickered his eyes down, stubbing out the butt of his cigarette. He kept his eyes down for a moment, fingertips lingering on the cigarette.   
  
Then he lifted his eyes and met Alfred’s and Alfred realized he was happy to see this man. Happy to be in his company. Happy to be back in England.   
  
And it felt strange to feel that.   
  
“Well,” Alfred said, when he felt the oppressive silence creeping up his shoulders, with no words and Arthur only staring at him. “What is it that you want?”   
  
Arthur didn’t react, right away. Though he shifted. And then sighed. He lowered his eyes, and shook his head.   
  
Then he turned away from Alfred, looking out towards London.  
  
“… Peace of mind,” he said, after a lengthy pause.   
  
Alfred laughed. He stubbed out his cigarette. “I don’t know if I can give you that, Ar—England.”   
  
“No,” Arthur sighed. “I daresay you can’t.”   
  
“But I can bring you more oranges,” Alfred offered, grinning.  
  
Arthur snorted, then sighed, and slumped just slightly, so that he was slouching, similar to how Alfred was. He shook his head, hanging it low so that his hair fell over his eyes. He lifted his hand, ruffling at the back of his hair, idly, and Alfred saw the bruises and cuts even along his hands, scarring his fingertips and grazing the knuckles.   
  
“If you’d like to do that,” Arthur said. “I would not say no.”   
  
“Then I’ll do that!” Alfred said, his grin only widening.   
  
Arthur shifted, looking up at Alfred through his bangs. And before he looked away, Alfred could have sworn he saw a small little smile on Arthur’s lips. And then he straightened, and was as straight-faced as always. Sitting prim and proper, hands in his lap.   
  
Alfred straightened, too, letting his hands fall—gently—onto Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur jolted in surprise, but didn’t retreat from the touch. He stared at Alfred, incredulous.   
  
“How are you feeling?” Alfred asked, smile slipping away, words weighted.   
  
Arthur, taken aback by the sudden question, could only stare at Alfred for a long moment. And then he sighed, and Alfred felt his shoulders relax under his hands.   
  
“There weren’t any major bombings while you were gone,” Arthur said. He lifted a hand to brush aside Alfred’s hands, but Alfred did not let go. Arthur sighed again. “I am the same as before.”   
  
Alfred frowned. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”   
  
“It is what it is,” Arthur said, and even shrugged one shoulder. Alfred felt the muscles shift beneath his palm, separated only by the thin layers of Arthur’s clothing. “What’s the matter with you?”  
  
“It was strange,” Alfred admitted, and felt his heart kick-start itself into a gallop, unsure why he was nervous or why his body was humming. “Being back home, I mean.”  
  
“You’d been from home a long time, considering it’s you,” Arthur said, quietly. “It’d be disorienting for anyone to leave a place like this.”  
  
“Well…”  
  
“I’m quite right,” Arthur said, licking his lips absently for a moment as he looked off into the middle-distance, and then thinking better of it and pulling out his pack of cigarettes. He debated taking another cigarette, but then ultimately decided against it and slipped it back into his pocket.   
  
“I guess so.” He slipped his hands away from Arthur’s shoulders.   
  
“Your land is beautiful,” Arthur said, calm, and Alfred felt his face heat up at the unexpected praise, “and not at war. Leaving a place like this, in the midst of war and… like this. It’s two completely different worlds.” Arthur sighed. “It’s a shame, really, that after all these years, you return to my country when it’s like this. It really does shine, when it’s at its best.”   
  
Alfred wanted to speak, wanted to say something—  
  
But Arthur shook his head, and quirked up a wry smile. “But surely the strangeness disappeared? It was only a short time, but surely it felt good to be back in your home.”   
  
“Well, sure,” Alfred said. “But, I don’t know. I’d gotten used to Americans like Winant being the only ones I saw. Seeing the others—”  
  
He cut himself off, unsure if he wanted to make mention of the all the people who hated England, who thought that Arthur was manipulating him.  
  
But Arthur, as always, seemed to pick up on what Alfred did not say. “Ah,” he said, softly. “You remembered the reason why you’re… ‘neutral’ in this war.”   
  
“… Yeah,” Alfred said, quietly.   
  
“And will you continue to be so?” Arthur said, and inclined his head towards the estate, undoubtedly towards wherever Churchill and Winant were.   
  
“… Yes,” Alfred said, quieter still. He blinked a few times, sighed, and said, “The president took some measures but… we aren’t at war yet. But, um. My boys’re taking over Iceland from yours.”   
  
“Is that so?” Arthur said, quiet, rhetorical.   
  
“And the navy’ll protect US merchant ships,” Alfred said. “But not British ones.”  
  
“It’s just as well,” Arthur sighed. “The Prime Minister had hopes, of course, but I suppose you and I understand the stubbornness of one another’s people better than anyone else. And your president seems as stubborn as they come.”  
  
Alfred wasn’t sure if Arthur was complimenting or insulting the president. So he let it fall away into silence between them.   
  
He swallowed, thickly. “Hey.”   
  
“Yes?”   
  
“You… can call me Alfred, ya know.”  
  
“Can I?” Arthur asked, mystified.   
  
Alfred nodded. “Yeah.” And then he felt his face heat up and he squared his jaw. “Cause, you know, everybody else calls me that already so it’s weird for you to call me something else.”   
  
Arthur eyed him for a long moment, then looked away towards London. “Alright.”   
  
Alfred waited, expectantly.   
  
No words passed between them, but Alfred watched the way Arthur’s mind whirled. His eyes were flickering, his face tight. He was thinking—thinking hard. Perhaps of the past, perhaps of the future—  
  
Alfred swallowed thickly.   
  
It’d been a long time since Arthur had called him by his name. It felt strange, to give him that permission now.   
  
Arthur sighed out.   
  
“Well?” Alfred asked.   
  
Arthur gave him a look. “Are you waiting for my permission? Heaven knows you’ve already been struggling to call me ‘England’ since you arrived here. Do as you wish—when have permissions ever stopped you?”   
  
Then he looked away with a jerky little stutter of his eyes. Alfred did not miss the way his cheeks turned red.   
  
“Arthur,” Alfred said, with a wide grin.   
  
“The strangest things make you happy,” Arthur said, softly.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
On their way back to the embassy that day, Winant still seemed a little tense.   
  
“How… did the Prime Minister take the news?” Alfred asked, cautiously.   
  
“He was somewhat heartened, I believe,” the ambassador said quietly. “But he and I both know that this is far from enough to fight off disaster.”   
  
“Yeah, Arthur was kind of the same way,” Alfred said. He shuffled his feet against the floor mat in the car. He sighed. “Ambassador?”  
  
“Yes, Alfred?” Winant prompted.   
  
“I can’t shape public opinion,” Alfred said. “There’s no real reason for me to be here. I can’t… make my people change their minds.”   
  
The ambassador smiled, wan and dim in the low, dying light of the evening. “You shouldn’t have to worry about such things, Alfred. Don’t let your mind linger on that.”   
  
“But—”  
  
“Perhaps you’ll understand, in time.”   
  
Alfred sighed, slouching in his seat. He rested his head in his hand, looking out at the darkening sky.  
  
“… Will there be a bombing tonight?” Alfred asked.   
  
“It’s hard to know for sure,” Winant said. He glanced up at the sky, too, and then returned his attention to the road. “Will you visit Sir Kirkland if there is?”  
  
“He’s staying at Chequers. And he’d kill me if he caught me running around during a bombing again. He got really angry last time.”   
  
“Did he?” Winant said. “It’s strange to see Sir Kirkland so passionate. He usually presents rather regal.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Alfred said, with a shrug. “He’s always getting angry at me in some way or another.”   
  
“Without reason?” the ambassador asked.   
  
“Naw,” Alfred said, and cracked a hesitant smile. “I promised him, though.”  
  
The ambassador paused, before resuming the conversation. “Promised?”  
  
“That if the bombs fell again, I’d find him.”  
  
There was a long silence, and Alfred blushed all the way to the tips of his ears, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the ambassador’s knowing silence.   
  
“I’m sure that, even if he’d never admit to it,” the ambassador said, slowly, “he is grateful.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
It was uncustomary for Winant to throw doors open, but that’s what he was doing. He burst into the room saying, loudly—not quite a shout—“The Germans have attacked the Soviets!”   
  
Alfred shot up from where he was lounging on the couch, eyes wide. “They—”  
  
“They’ve broken the 1939 nonaggression treaty and invaded the Soviet Union with more than two million troops,” the ambassador said, hurrying over to Alfred’s side.   
  
“And—”  
  
“The Prime Minister has pledged the country’s full support to the Soviet Union.”   
  
Alfred’s eyebrows furrowed. “But…”   
  
Winant preempted what Alfred was about to say and said, “The Prime Minister is not fond of Stalin or the Soviet Union, but it’s necessary. If Germany is focusing on invading the Soviet Union, that means—”  
  
“—the British won’t have all the burden!” Alfred said, jumping up.   
  
“Precisely,” the ambassador said, practically beaming.   
  
“Does Arthur know?” Alfred asked.   
  
He hadn’t seen Arthur since his return to England, as their work had kept them from seeing one another. Arthur was spending most of his time at Chequers, it would appear, or going to other cities, usually the port cities. It seemed the Prime Minister had a lot of work for him to do. Alfred, though not nearly as busy, usually followed Winant’s lead—doing work in the embassy, helping those they could when they toured the streets of London.   
  
Alfred told himself he wasn’t disappointed—after all, he was staying busy. And it was almost the end of June—it was almost time for him to go home for his birthday. His trip home at the start of the month hadn’t been very pleasant, but it’d been short. Alfred was sure that, this time, he would be happy and comfortable at home. Who knew, maybe he’d be so comfortable he wouldn’t want to leave again, this time.  
  
The ambassador was shaking his head. “I don’t know if Sir Kirkland has heard.”   
  
“Well, if Churchill’s already spoken on it, I’m sure he has,” Alfred said, feeling incredibly pleased despite the late hour. “He’ll be able to relax, a little.”  
  
“We can only hope.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Arthur looked up from his desk when Alfred entered the room and seemed momentarily surprised to see him at all.   
  
“Hey,” Alfred said, grinning.   
  
“… Hello,” Arthur greeted, frowning. “What are you doing here?”   
  
“I’m just here to congratulate you on getting a new ally…” Alfred said, feeling awkward for the admission and scratching the back of his ear. Arthur looked like he was about to say something, so Alfred continued, “… aaaaaaand to say goodbye.”   
  
Arthur didn’t react right away to Alfred’s words. Whatever he was about to say before seemed to have died in his throat, and he was eerily silent. He did not move. But his frown, after a moment, did deepen considerably. He stared at Alfred.   
  
“What?” Alfred asked, holding up his hands. “What’s with that look?”   
  
“Yes, a new ally, indeed. If one can call the Soviet Union an ally,” Arthur muttered. “His government leaders are _the_ mortal foes of civilized freedom.” Alfred blinked, surprised, by the venom in Arthur’s voice. “A wicked regime.” He bent his head, sighing, shoulders tense as he planted his hands on the flat of his desk, staring down at the papers strewn there. “But I must bite my tongue. I need the Russians to bear the brunt of a new German onslaught, to lift some of the burden from my own men. We need to regroup.”   
  
“Is it really that bad, to work with Russia?” Alfred asked.  
  
Arthur’s lip twitched, curling up in displeasure for a moment before he purposefully smoothed his face out into one of indifference. “No, I suppose it isn’t. It… isn’t.”   
  
He was lying. Alfred frowned. He couldn’t quite say the idea of working with Russia seemed all that appealing to him, either, but it was what it was. At least Arthur would have an ally, and perhaps the plea for the US to join the war would lessen, too.   
  
“Goodbye,” Arthur said, abruptly, turning away.   
  
“Whoa, wait,” Alfred said, with a laugh. “You don’t even know what the goodbye’s for.”  
  
“You’re going home for your… birthday,” Arthur said, tensely, “I remember. There’s no need for you to say goodbye to me, though. We haven’t seen each other since you’d first returned from your last trip.”   
  
“Yeah,” Alfred said, and was about to protest when he realized that, really, he hadn’t needed to come at all—to say goodbye or otherwise. He just had. He hadn’t even thought about it. “I was just wondering—ha ha, what are you gonna get me for my birthday?”  
  
“You should damn well know that I have nothing I can give you,” Arthur snapped, abruptly, and Alfred jolted in surprise.   
  
“Geez, Arthur,” Alfred said, frowning. He hadn’t been this moody and distant in a long time—their last meeting had even, Alfred would hazard to guess, gone _well._ He hadn’t expected for Arthur to be so unpleasant. Arthur sank down into his seat, pillowing his face against his hands. He sighed, an almost angry hiss. Alfred stood there, unsure whether he should leave or press Arthur. “It was a joke,” Alfred said. “You don’t have to get me anything.”  
  
“I know it was a joke, you fool,” Arthur muttered into his hands.  
  
“Then what’s up?” Alfred protested, stepping forward and kicking at the back of Arthur’s desk. He planted his hands against the desk and leaned forward, looming over Arthur.  
  
Arthur lowered his hands, a little, and looked up at Alfred. Their eyes locked, and held. Alfred could see the bags under Arthur’s eyes still, the angry look in his eyes. An angry look that didn’t seem to fit—an angry look without a purpose.   
  
“Hey,” Alfred said. “What’s wrong?”   
  
“Fuck you,” Arthur snapped, and sighed out. “Nothing is wrong.”   
  
“Arthur,” Alfred said, almost a whine. “Did you run out of cigarettes already or something?”  
  
“Although that has nothing to do with it, yes.”   
  
“Okay then!” Alfred said, straightening, and digging around his jacket pocket. He pulled out his half-full cigarette pack and pushed it into Arthur’s hand. Arthur tried to drop it, so Alfred cupped Arthur’s hand with both of his own. “Keep ‘em. I’m about to get more back home, anyway. If it’ll help you relax, it’s okay, okay?”  
  
“It’s not the cigarettes that I need,” Arthur said with a twitch, though he didn’t attempt to throw the cigarettes back at Alfred.  
  
“Then what is it? You can tell me, ya know.”  
  
Arthur sighed, sinking and slumping into himself—utter exhaustion. Alfred almost preferred it when Arthur put on the brave face, when he stood tall and grim and pretended there was nothing wrong. At the same time, there was a level of intimacy in seeing Arthur frazzled, seeing him nearly rip his hair out, seeing him look as if he couldn’t stand another moment. But, at the same time, these things only made Alfred dizzy, made him uncertain.  
  
He approached Arthur.   
  
“What is it?” he repeated.   
  
“Do you truly have to ask?” Arthur snapped. He inhaled sharply, seeming to remember himself and straightening his back, squaring his shoulders, clenching his jaw. The transformation was almost complete—Arthur seemed very much in control, poised, disciplined.   
  
But, at the same time, Alfred could recognize it all now—the tension, the grim lines creasing his face, the fatigue in his eyes as he stared down the hours ticking on the clock.   
  
“I am tired of war, I am tired of starving, I am tired of _everything_ , and I am most tired of _you,_ waltzing in here like you’re—you’re…”  
  
Arthur stood up abruptly, yanking his hand away from Alfred’s. Alfred stared at him, blinking owlishly, and feeling disoriented by the sudden turn of the conversation.   
  
“I’m tired of you acting like you care,” Arthur snapped. “Go. Go home and enjoy your birthday, and I’m sure it’ll be so wonderful that you won’t come back and that’s fine by me. I don’t need you. I—” He choked for a moment, squared his shoulders, and shoved the cigarettes into his pocket. “I’m tired of you pitying me.”   
  
“What the hell?” was all Alfred could manage to say.   
  
Arthur’s lips twitched and he scowled, darkly, turning away from Alfred. “Goodbye.”  
  
It was an obvious dismissal. Alfred could see the embarrassment creeping up Arthur’s face as he realized his outbursts, seemingly of nowhere. Alfred, still confused, refused to accept that dismissal.   
  
“Arthur,” Alfred said, stepping around the desk and grabbing onto his shoulder. Arthur didn’t shove him away, though he did stiffen up considerably. “I’ve told you before. I don’t pity you.”  
  
Arthur sniffed, disdain written all across his face.   
  
“Then what is it that makes you do the things you do?” Arthur asked, insistent, though some of the venom had seeped from his voice. He spoke, softer this time, a legitimate question, a legitimate inquiry. “Why do you care?”   
  
Alfred blinked in surprise, mind and heart stuttering to a stop at the question. He couldn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer—for perhaps the first time, he was left wondering. What did Arthur think of _him_ , in turn? He couldn’t know for sure, he couldn’t decipher Arthur—  
  
And what did Alfred feel for Arthur?  
  
He didn’t want to answer.  
  
He couldn’t have an answer, either—he wasn’t ready to know the answer, at all. He swallowed, thickly, and dropped his hand away from Arthur’s shoulder. Face in a grim, neutral expression, Arthur turned to look at him—a flicker of confusion in his eyes.   
  
Alfred didn’t want to think about it all. Something was curling in his gut—but he ignored it.  
  
Arthur’s eyes met his own.  
  
Alfred swallowed, then grinned—anything to hide his discomfort.  
  
He grabbed Arthur’s hand, and squeezed. “Hey, does it matter?”   
  
Arthur’s brow furrowed, but Alfred squeezed Arthur’s hand again, dropped it, and stepped away.   
  
“I gotta go,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards the door behind him. But Arthur wasn’t looking away from him, and Alfred wasn’t about to be the one to break eye contact. “I… yeah. Gotta go.”  
  
“Then,” Arthur said, voice sounding resigned. “Goodbye, Alfred.”   
  
Alfred paused in his step, chewing on the inside of his cheek.   
  
“Bye,” he croaked, turned away, and hurried from the room.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He arrived home in the dark of night—but it wasn’t truly dark.   
  
Staring down from the plane, it was almost unnerving to see all the glittering lights of a city below him. He’d grown too used to darkness, too used to blackouts, too used to the fear the sound of humming planes produced.   
  
Here, it was peaceful. Almost eerily so. There were no nightly stars to gaze upon in the cities, only the countless constellations of lights.   
  
It was peaceful.  
  
So why did it feel so strangely?   
  
“It’s just because I’ve only just arrived,” Alfred whispered to himself, as the plane started its descent towards the airport. He pressed his face to the window, drinking in the sight of his country at night. He smiled, unable to resist the flood of relief in his gut, and openly welcoming it.   
  
_Why do you care—_  
  
The words echoed in his gut. He shook his head, abruptly, letting out a long sigh. He pulled his fingers into his hair and slumped a little in his seat, unable to concentrate.   
  
He landed. He pulled himself from the plane, walked briskly across the tamarack and into the airport terminal. He was home.   
  
Home.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
It was too quiet. He couldn’t sleep.   
  
He rolled back and forth on his bed—his _home_ —but couldn’t fall asleep. He’d grown used to hearing the murmur of other apartment goers, of the embassy workers, of the sirens, the crackling of the radio.   
  
Right, the radio—  
  
Alfred rolled over to the side of his bed and reached out to click on the radio beside his bed. He turned the dial, and the static filtered into the room, familiar and foreign. And then he heard the crackling voice of a newscaster of the BBC, explaining the situation in Russia.  
  
Alfred rested his head against his pillow, just listening.   
  
“It’ll be good,” Alfred whispered to himself over the sound of crackling news reports, “if he can rest a little because of this.”   
  
_Why do you care—_   
  
Alfred squeezed his eyes shut.   
  
He didn’t know—he didn’t know if he wanted to know. He didn’t know what he felt about Arthur, why he cared—he just knew that he did. And if he examined his feelings further, that would mean—  
  
But what did Arthur think of him?   
  
“Hates me,” Alfred said, decidedly. “Or at least tolerates me now.”  
  
Yes, tolerated. If Arthur hated him, he wouldn’t have let him stay during the bombings, wouldn’t have cried in front of him like he had. That image still haunted Alfred in the corners of his heart, if he was honest. There was, of course, the possibility that his military officers were correct—perhaps Arthur was using him, manipulating him. Perhaps he was so good that Alfred hadn’t even realized.   
  
“If he is, he deserves all the aid he can get for being such a clever bastard,” Alfred muttered, and rolled onto his back—staring up at the ceiling. His fingers curled in the bed sheets and he sighed, mind lingering on Arthur.   
  
That wasn’t the case, though. Arthur didn’t intend manipulation—not in those moments. Alfred believed that. He knew it.   
  
His eyes felt heavy.  
  
All that mattered—his feelings didn’t matter. What mattered was that he wouldn’t let Arthur fall. That was all. He didn’t need to examine his thoughts further.   
  
His eyes closed.   
  
_Why do you care—_  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Alfred spent the month of July at home. His birthday came and went without much incident. His people, everywhere, were celebrating as always. He found himself the highest hill he could manage and sat out watching the fireworks.  
  
But the fireworks exploding sounded, distantly, like bombs. So even on a day that was meant for him and only him—the day he separated himself from England, from Arthur, forever—left him thinking on Arthur, thinking for far too long.  
  
He sat on the table of a picnic table, looking out over the expanse of fields and, in the distance, a few smattering of cities and towns. The fireworks launched sporadically, and all around. He watched their bursts of color, and remembered the way the firestorms had bloomed across the horizon in London.  
  
He shook his head abruptly. “Stop thinking about it.”  
  
But he couldn’t. Every waking moment home reawakened new memories of London. The silence of the night only highlighted the absence of sirens. The bright city lights only reminded him of the blackouts. The butchers, the fruit stalls, the eggs and milk by the truckloads only reminded him of their starvation. The bright-eyed, long-haired girls in the bar he spent too much time looking upon reminded him of the bruises and cuts and scars across Arthur’s hands and arms.  
  
A particularly large firework burst nearby.   
  
Alfred cringed, just a little. He breathed out, slowly, body deflating.   
  
“Happy birthday,” he whispered.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“I have no obligation or loyalty to him,” he told himself, decisively, as he stood on the eastern seaboard. The sun was sinking behind him, and the beachgoers were packing their things up and leaving for the day. But Alfred sat in the sand, curling his arms around his knees, and staring out at the ocean—most specifically, he realized, northeast.   
  
He thought of going back a few times—going back early. But he had no obligation to. This was his country—that was Arthur’s country. The separation should be remembered and assured.   
  
He sighed out.   
  
“Even so,” he said, softly, to himself. “Even so, I…”  
  
He trailed off, letting his mind wander. He spent an hour, sitting out on the sand until the sun-warmth melted away from it and he was left to his daydreams and his thoughts.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He fell asleep to the sounds of the BBC every night.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
After a few weeks of such thoughts and practices, Alfred returned to work. The president was too busy to spend too much time or attention on him, but figured Alfred was fine, probably—so Alfred did little jobs, mostly socializing with the secretaries and aides whenever he could. It helped keep his mind off everything, though he kept making the comparison of the White House work to the embassy work.   
  
He eventually convinced himself that his concern about the other side of the ocean was his concern for Winant. But Arthur snuck into his thoughts so much that, eventually, he gave it up and, while staring down at a coffee cup filled with mediocre coffee, he had a mini-epiphany.   
  
“Good god, I really do miss him,” he said.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**   
  
\- On June 22, Hitler broke his 1939 nonagression treaty with Joseph Stalin and invaded the Soviet Union with more than two million troops. Later that day, Churchill announced his country’s full support of the USSR despite Churchill’s long-held beliefs that the Soviet Union’s leaders were “the mortal foes of civilized freedom” and a “wicked regime.” (These words were actually stated by Churchill and, in this fic, said by Arthur.) Despite Churchill’s distaste of the Soviet Union, he needed the Soviets to help bear the brunt of the weight of a new German onslaught so that the burden of fighting could be lifted, if only slightly, from his own troops.   
  
\- May 10, therefore, was the last major attack on Britain in 1941, since afterward, it was the Luftwaffe’s new mission to fight the soviets rather than to break British morale. Some German fighters returned periodically some nights, but there was not a major attack of major devastation as the last bombings.   
  
\- After Winant’s return to England, from his meeting with the president, Churchill ordered a plane to pick him up at the base in Scotland where he landed and take him immediately to Chequers. When the ambassador informed the Prime Minister of the meeting and new American actions, Churchill, while somewhat heartened, knew it was far from enough to guarantee England’s continued existence. “If Munich had been Great Britain’s least glorious hour, mid-1941 was surely America’s,” a British historian later wrote.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred and Arthur meet again in Newfoundland, for the Atlantic Charter meeting between their bosses.
> 
> Time stamp: August of 1941.

It was misty today.   
  
Alfred couldn’t look far beyond where he stood, on the deck of the flagship of the US Atlantic Fleet, Augusta. He peered out into the mist-shrouded horizon, searching for the British battleship meant to meet them there in Placentia Bay—the Prince of Wales. There was no sign of it yet, and Alfred refused to let himself think about the battleship and its destroyer escorts meeting with trouble, having to engage in a naval battle, and losing. He could recognize to himself that he was acting irrational, though, but that didn’t keep him from tapping his fingertips uncertainly against his arms as he crossed them over his chest.   
  
The president stood somewhere behind him, holding to his son’s arm, and discussing some kind of political move unrelated to the British. Something about domestic profit or—Alfred blocked it out, only half-listening, his mind racing as he thought about the war far beyond these waters. He dropped his arms. Alfred tapped his fingers against his pant legs, unsure what else to do. He swallowed thickly and shifted from foot to foot. He swallowed. He breathed out, trying to remain calm.   
  
After so long back home, he could admit to himself that he was looking forward to seeing Arthur—maybe a little, at least. Or maybe he was just happy to be given something to do. Staying home and doing nothing but menial secretarial work wasn’t doing much for his spirits. And the more he thought about it, the unhappier he became—unhappy that he couldn’t relax in his home without feeling like something was missing. It wasn’t supposed to feel that way—he was supposed to feel at home no matter what, feel safe and comfortable and needed. Not like he was a stranger visiting a foreign land.   
  
He’d jumped at the chance to meet for this meeting, though, when the president had asked him. Alfred had a feeling Arthur would be there, too, but even if he wasn’t, it’d be nice to feel involved in something. Though perhaps he wasn’t look forward to seeing Churchill as much—thankfully, he’d probably be too busy working with Roosevelt to pay Alfred any mind. Alfred was not eager for the Prime Minister’s insistences and goading.   
  
There was a touch of nervousness there, though. Roosevelt and Churchill were primma donnas. Both were charismatic and both wanted to be the center of attention. Alfred worried about whether or not an agreement between them could be reached. He glanced out over the water again, blinking a few times. He wanted everything to go well—  
  
 _Why do you care—_  
  
“They’re probably certain we’re entering the war,” Alfred said, quietly, to himself.   
  
“Undoubtedly,” the president said behind him and Alfred jumped in surprise. He turned around to face his president, who was standing beside him, now, looking out towards the bay, searching out for the British battleship, too. Alfred couldn’t quite read his expression.   
  
“… Are we?” Alfred asked, feeling his heart press up against his ribcage in a steady, pulsing beat.   
  
“Ah, there it is,” Roosevelt said, and nodded his head out towards the bay.  
  
Alfred lifted his head and, sure enough, there it was—the Prince of Wales, heavily scarred from recent clashes in the Atlantic. Alfred stood up straighter, walked closer to the edge of the deck, and stared out towards the ship. His eyes did not waver. Alfred watched it as the ship and its destroyer escorts ushered themselves towards the American fleet. He breathed out a slight breath, and it came out shakier than he’d really anticipated.   
  
The US Marine band started tuning their instruments. Roosevelt turned away from the sight and strolled—as much as he could really stroll, Alfred amended in his mind—back to where he’d been standing before, holding tight to his son as he went. His movements were jerky and uncertain, but he remained upright, face grim.   
  
Alfred waited. His eyes followed the British ship.   
  
It wasn’t too long of a wait.   
  
The band began to play “God Save the King” as the British party clambered aboard the Augusta. Once Roosevelt caught sight of Churchill, he beamed.   
  
There was a moment of silence as the two men moved towards one another, together on the same ship, facing one another. There was silence. Until, finally, Churchill said, “At long last, Mister President.”   
  
Roosevelt replied, “Glad to have you aboard, Mr. Churchill.” He was still grinning, beaming even. He declared, “At last we’ve gotten together.”   
  
Churchill, smiling just as broadly, nodded. “Yes, we have.”   
  
Churchill then presented the president with a letter from King George VI. The sound crew present onboard clambered to record Churchill as he spoke out an official statement. The recording didn’t pick up. Churchill repeated it. Still, the sound crew could not capture it.   
  
Alfred tore his eyes away from the two leaders and searched out for Arthur. After Churchill’s arrival there came Churchill’s people and Harry Hopkins, a few people Alfred did not recognize, and then, finally, Arthur climbed aboard, with a little difficulty. Free of his broken arm, it still was a little weaker than the other arm, and caused him a little pause as he moved his way up onto the ship’s deck.   
  
Arthur lifted his eyes from his feet as he got his footing again, and his eyes found Alfred’s. He didn’t smile, but his face seemed to relax—just slightly. The slightest touch, easy to miss. He gave a little nod in Alfred’s direction—and everything seemed better, warmer. Alfred knew he was grinning, and didn’t care. He walked over towards Arthur.   
  
Before he could say anything, though, Arthur stuck out his hand. He pulled his eyes away from Alfred, frowning just slightly, hand extended towards Alfred. Alfred, still grinning, grasped it tightly and shook it. “Hey, Arthur.”   
  
“Alfred,” he greeted, quietly. His eyes flickered back to look at him. “I’d wondered if you’d be here with your president.”   
  
“Wouldn’t miss it.”   
  
“Hm, indeed,” Arthur murmured, and released Alfred’s hand. The warmth of his hand lingered.   
  
“Was the trip okay?”   
  
“Only five days,” Arthur said, softly, and shook his head, not looking at Arthur, but rather looking at his Prime Minister and Alfred’s President. He was silent for a long moment before sighing out. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Newfoundland.”   
  
“I don’t know why the heck you’d make a point to visit, but,” Alfred said, with a laugh. “Okay.”  
  
“Shall we?” Arthur asked, holding out his arm towards where the President, Prime Minister, and the cluster of British and American people were making their way towards where lunch had been set up.   
  
“Sure,” Alfred agreed, and walked past Arthur to lead the way.   
  
It was strangely pleasant, but also kind of stilted. He longed to talk to Arthur more—and did not linger on why—and catch up with him. It’d been a little over a month, after all. But Arthur seemed the same as always. Alfred wanted to make sure he was okay—he hadn’t heard about any major bombings in his nights falling asleep to the BBC. And he knew what it felt like to be severed from his own country—Arthur could be feeling that as well. Even if it was only five days, and even if the conference here on the flagship would only last four days—it could be unnerving. Maybe, if Arthur was feeling uneasy, Alfred could help him.  
  
He fiddled with his shirtsleeves, unsnapping the buttons and redoing them back up again. He swallowed nervously.   
  
Lunch went well. By the end of it, Churchill and Roosevelt were referring to one another by their first names. By all accounts, their egos weren’t overpowering the conference. They each were, Alfred could dare to suspect, keeping those egos under tight control. Perhaps it was too early to tell during the first few hours of the visit, but so far it was going well. The two were jovial with one another, laughing and talking.   
  
After lunch, Alfred caught Churchill whispering to Averell Harriman, “Does he like me, Averell? Do you think he likes me?”   
  
Alfred glanced over towards Roosevelt, who seemed to be in a pleasant mood ever since meeting Churchill.   
  
Alfred could hazard that the answer to the prime minister’s question was most certainly yes.   
  
Even Arthur seemed to be in a pleasant mood. He didn’t quite smile, but there was a lightness to his face as he ate and discussed with the men around them.   
  
The two leaders were laughing together now, having established an easy intimacy, a joking informality. The two men lead the way to the meeting room, to discuss the purpose for the conference—to draft out the goals of the war years and the post-war world. Alfred decided not to attend the meeting, and, much to his satisfaction, Arthur did not go to follow the party as it filtered its way into the conference room aboard the flagship.   
  
“I’ve got something for you,” Alfred said, suddenly, now that the cluster of men was dispersing.   
  
Arthur gave him an uncertain look. “Indeed?”  
  
“Come on,” Alfred said, and grabbed onto Arthur’s wrist, very lightly, and tugged. Arthur looked as if he would protest, just slightly, but in the end did not hold his ground and allowed Alfred to lead him.   
  
They rattled through the interior of the ship, searching out Alfred’s room. He grinned as he moved. “I’m never gonna get used to boats—”  
  
“—ships—” Arthur interrupted.  
  
Alfred ignored him, “—all these passageways are really disorienting. Give me a plane any day.”  
  
He found his door and threw it open, pulling Arthur inside the small quarters.   
  
Arthur looked around the room, frowning, as Alfred began digging through his stuff. “I’m surprised they wouldn’t give the country a better room than this.”  
  
“I don’t mind it. I insisted. I think they gave all the best rooms to you guys—in case none of you wanted to go back to your silly boat,” Alfred said as he dug his face into his clothes, throwing them aside willy-nilly as he searched out—“There it is!”   
  
“What?” Arthur asked, momentarily distracted by whatever lecture he was going to give Alfred for daring to call a ship a ‘boat’ and implying that his was silly. Alfred straightened, pulling a bag from underneath the small hill of clothes.   
  
Grinning, Alfred began digging around his bag and then pulled out an orange. “Ta da!”   
  
Arthur stared at him, and his expression crumbled just a little—the smallest of cracks in his neutral expression.  
  
“Oh…”  
  
Alfred gave him the orange, and dug around, pulling out two more. “Here. I didn’t want to give you too many cause I know they’ll go bad and that’d be no good.”  
  
Arthur stared down at the oranges, and his hands shook just a little. “I see…”  
  
“I have other stuff, too.”  
  
“Well I haven’t any hands to hold them, really.”   
  
“You can have the bag, too, then,” Alfred said with a shrug. He dug around the bag to show him what else he’d gotten him—more cigarettes, some onions, and smoked ham. Alfred’s grin stretched wider when he saw Arthur’s eyes widen in turn at the gifts. With slightly shaky hands, Arthur returned the oranges to the bag and took the bag from Alfred’s outstretched hand.   
  
“This is really too much…” Arthur began.  
  
“Whatever, save it. I know you want them. And I don’t mind giving them to you—I mean. I want to give them to you.” Alfred, still grinning, felt his face heat up. “Think of it as payback all those times I took your food when I visited you.”  
  
Arthur closed his eyes, breathing out softly, and then nodded his head just a little. “Yes. Well.”   
  
They stood in silence. Arthur didn’t say anything else and Alfred felt himself growing increasingly awkward. He shifted from foot to foot. He lifted a hand, scratching at the back of his neck. His heart was pounding. He was happy—Arthur looked happy, so he was happy, too.   
  
He swallowed thickly.   
  
_Why do you care—_  
  
He swallowed again, and then cleared his throat. Arthur looked up at him, curious.   
  
“Oh, um,” Alfred said, realizing that the throat clearing could have sounded like he was trying to grab attention again. He bit the inside of his cheek and said, “So you… like it all? It’s okay?”  
  
Arthur looked up at him for a long moment, and then his face heated up and he ducked his head. He cleared his throat too.   
  
“Yes. I…” he trailed off and shifted, uncomfortable, under Alfred’s gaze. “Thank you, lad.”   
  
Alfred felt the warmth flood in his chest and he nodded. “You’re welcome! I’m glad!”   
  
Arthur nodded again, absently, not meeting Alfred’s gaze as he held the bag tight to him.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Later that afternoon, as Alfred passed by the door, he heard Churchill shout, “You’ve got to come in beside us! If you don’t declare war without waiting for them to strike the first blow, they’ll strike it after we’ve gone under, and their blow will be their last as well! You must come in, if you are to survive!”   
  
“I can’t, Winston,” Roosevelt said, calmly. Alfred pressed his ear near the crack in the door to hear better—the door had been left slightly open, to let the air in. “Congress and the American public are in no mood to enter this conflict.”  
  
“But you must—”  
  
“I cannot,” Roosevelt interrupted. “The House almost defeated the one-year extension for the limited military draft. It survived by one vote. That is not a Congress willing to declare war.”   
  
“I was under the impression that, when you called us here, it was because you had the intention of declaring war!”  
  
“I had not meant to mislead in such a way.”  
  
“But why else would you call for this conference?”   
  
“For the reasons I stated. Let us draft a statement we can both agree on—for what we believe the world should be. For the goals of this war.”  
  
“Why should you be in charge of the goals if you won’t enter the war?”   
  
Perhaps in an attempt to lessen the sting of his rebuff, Roosevelt’s voice grew softer, more reassuring. “The US will become more provocative in the Atlantic.”   
  
Alfred listened carefully.  
  
“We’ll provide armed escorts for the British as well as the American merchant ships as far as Iceland.”   
  
The Prime Minister was silent for a moment.   
  
“I cannot go to war when my people and my Congress do not wish it,” Roosevelt said. “I cannot and I will not. But… I promise you, Winston. I will look for an incident which will justify me in opening hostilities.”   
  
Again, the Prime Minister was silent—Alfred could not begin to imagine what his expression would be like.   
  
“And, in addition, I promise to ask for another five billion dollars for Lend-Lease from Congress. I’ll expedite the shipment of plane and tanks to Britain.”   
  
Again, the Prime Minister said nothing.  
  
“What I ask in return is that you join me in proclaiming the goals and principles that should govern a postwar world, including what I believe to be the most important: the right of all nations to self-determination.”  
  
“Very well,” Churchill finally said. “But know this, Franklin. I would rather have a declaration of war now and no supplies for six months than double the supplies and no declaration.”  
  
Alfred cringed a little, closing his eyes and breathing out. He walked away.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He found Arthur on deck, looking out at the water. It was a quiet, still day. The water hardly seemed to move—a smooth sheet of glass. Some fog still curved through the air, but for the most part, there was only the warmth of the summertime sun.   
  
Alfred moved beside him, folding his arms against the railing along with Arthur. Arthur did not turn to look at him, nor did he acknowledge him in any way. But Alfred saw the slightest slump of his shoulders as Alfred settled in beside him. He watched Arthur relax, slightly, let the grim, guarded stance melt just slightly.   
  
Alfred hated the silence. He struggled to find some way to fill it.  
  
But Arthur beat him to it. After a few long moments of silence, Arthur tilted his head to look at Alfred, briefly, before flickering his eyes back towards the water. “Do you believe this meeting will result in your declaration of war?”   
  
Alfred blinked in surprise. And then, slowly, shook his head. “No.”  
  
He didn’t apologize, though the ‘sorry’ was there on his tongue. Arthur only nodded, and turned his head away.   
  
“The Prime Minister had hoped it would. But I had not been so sure.”   
  
They fell again into silence.   
  
Arthur stared out at the water. His expression was soft when he gazed out at it, the wind touching the locks of hair on his forehead, wavering just slightly.   
  
Alfred looked out over the water, trying to see what it was that Arthur saw. But he couldn’t see it.  
  
“You really love the ocean, don’t you?” he asked, quietly.   
  
The smile curved Arthur’s lips. Finally, a smile. Soft, distant, but undoubtedly there. “What gave you that impression, I wonder.”   
  
“I dunno. You always just look. Really serene whenever you look at it.”   
  
“What’s to say I’m not thinking of serene things when I look out over the ocean?” Arthur asked, calmly.   
  
“Dunno,” Alfred admitted.   
  
Arthur hummed, softly. He tilted his head a little for a moment, then pushed his hands from the railing, straightening his back with a sigh.   
  
“I miss it,” Arthur admitted, slowly, casually. “Sometimes.”   
  
“Oh,” Alfred said, unsure how to respond.   
  
“Not just because of Germany fucking over the Atlantic, of course. Just. All of it. Years past, I suppose, I…” He paused, and sighed. “I’ve moved on. The past can never return. But still. I find myself growing nostalgic sometimes. I used to rule the seas. I would spend months on end as captain of ships and… there was such freedom there. I was not as tethered by politics as I am now.”   
  
“But…”  
  
Alfred nodded. “But the past cannot return. No matter how often you look back on it—it will only remain as memories. That is all.”  
  
“Arthur…”  
  
He trailed off, and Arthur was silent for a long moment.  
  
Then he sighed. “That isn’t to say it’s bad, to look back on the past. But there is a difference between looking back, remembering, and missing it—and living in that past. I miss the ocean, yes. I miss many things. But I do not miss it so much that I would wish myself back again.”   
  
Alfred did not say anything. There was nothing he could say.   
  
Arthur folded his arms again, leaning over the railing of the ship. He was smiling, just slightly—barely a touch of a smile, but Alfred could see it.   
  
“Ah, that somehow reminds me.”   
  
Alfred watched as Arthur dug around his pocket and pulled out one of the cigarette packs that Alfred had given him. He popped it open and offered it to Alfred.   
  
“Huh?” Alfred asked, though did not protest much further than that. He leaned down, pressing his mouth to the pack until one of them stuck. He held it between his lips and pulled back, not quite chewing on the end, but just enough that the stick wiggled a little, playful, in his mouth.   
  
“Happy birthday,” Arthur said, voice unexpectedly grave.   
  
“You gave me back something I gave you and call it a birthday present? You really are a stickler, Arthur,” Alfred said, laughing. Laughing because he did not know what else to do—he felt the sobering twist in his gut, clenching tight at his heart until he couldn’t breathe normally. Arthur’s words, heavy and true, hung in his mind. Alfred tried to strike his lighter, but the summer breeze prevented the flame from lighting the cigarette.   
  
Arthur said nothing. He did, after a moment, step towards Alfred, taking the lighter from his hand and cupping his other hand over the cigarette’s end. He struck the lighter a few times and managed to light the cigarette for Alfred. Alfred grinned his thanks, inhaled, and then exhaled. The hazy blue smoke of tobacco whipped behind him as he blew out. Their eyes held for a long moment.   
  
There was something there—in his chest. Words he wanted to say. But he did not speak, he could not speak. Everything hung heavy between them.   
  
He watched Arthur close his eyes and turn his head away. Alfred breathed out. He looked away. The two of them settled against the railing again, looking out over the ocean.   
  
“… When you look out at it, you can almost forget there’s a war,” Arthur said, abruptly.   
  
Thankful for the breaking of the silence, Alfred looked up from where he was contemplating his shoes. He stared at Arthur. “Yeah?”  
  
“It’s peaceful here.” Arthur closed his eyes, and inhaled. “It’s been a long time. Since I’ve been to this side of the ocean.”   
  
“Oh… yeah. Yeah.” Alfred shivered, despite the warmth of the sun on his back.   
  
Alfred shifted, uneasy. He watched Arthur, who did not open his eyes. He just let the wind touch his face, slowly, a loving caress. Alfred took a step closer to him, lifted a hand. Reached out to touch his cheek, to let him know—  
  
 _Why do you care—_  
  
—then thought better of it. He turned back towards the ocean.   
  
“Peaceful. Gentle. Beautiful.” Arthur sighed out. “This side of the world always has been. Untouched by that war. It’s reassuring… to know there are still areas of this world that are truly uninvolved.”   
  
Alfred felt his face beginning to flush. Yeah, they were in Canada, technically—but god damn. And he wasn’t uninvolved, he wasn’t untouched. He wanted to say so, the words were in his throat—  
  
But he couldn’t do it—  
  
“What do you think they’re talking in there?” he asked, abruptly, changing the subject and turning his blushing face away. Red with embarrassment, red with shame.   
  
“Our bosses?” Arthur asked, sounding momentarily surprised by the question, the sudden veer away from the road of conversation.  
  
“Yeah,” Alfred said, softly.   
  
Arthur was quiet for a moment.   
  
“The minutiae of war. Of violence. Of their righteous cause,” Arthur said, voice still soft and quiet. He sounded bitter, he sounded distant—he sounded like he was just holding on.   
  
Alfred turned to stare at him, unable to break his eyes away. His hands shook. He grasped at the railing to keep them steady, to keep Arthur from seeing how much this all affected Alfred.   
  
Arthur looked up at Alfred, and, after a moment, Alfred let his eyes capture Arthur’s—stared right into his eyes and did not pull away. Arthur stared at him, long and silent. He studied him. Alfred felt as if he was on display, unable to determine why Arthur was pausing.   
  
“War is how so many people measured themselves as men,” Arthur said after a moment. “This time is no different.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“Every generation, humans believe that their war is the righteous war. Their war is the glorious war. Their war is the greatest war. They see the changes of war, the changes in society. They can understand the differences between themselves and their grandfathers, and their grandfathers. But...”  
  
He paused.   
  
“Arthur?” Alfred asked, quietly, the day suddenly feeling far too cold for a warm August day.  
  
“War is not one man versus one man anymore. And yet, at the same time, every war is just the same. To us especially—we see these wars over the years, and we see how fundamental things remain just the same. In the end, it is the same thing over and over again.”   
  
“Yeah…” Alfred began, unsure what to say.   
  
Arthur sighed, opening his eyes and looking out over the water again. “I hope that—… that is, I mean...”   
  
“What?” he asked, hushed.   
  
Arthur didn’t respond right away.   
  
Slowly, he said, “I hope that they—our bosses, that is—will think about the consequences of violence this time. I hope they will note who initiates it, who conducts it, and who must pay the price for it. Wars—they do not simply appear from nowhere. Wars come. Over a long period of time and, as you know, there is always plenty of blame to be shared out between all those who failed to prevent its arrival.”  
  
Arthur curled his hands around the railing of the ship, staring out at the water for a moment longer. The wind licked at his hair, and it wavered around his eyes. His eyes stayed firm, staring out over the horizon, staring out back towards London—crumbling, buckling London. His country. Alfred felt the chill scrape across his bones, down to his marrow.   
  
“But I hope that… despite that… they will also consider what is truly precious in their lives, and what is merely nonsense, grandstanding, posturing, egotism…” Arthur said, quietly, and then trailed off, lowering his eyes and ducking his head. Alfred watched him slump, just slightly, saw the slope of his shoulders.   
  
Alfred watched Arthur shiver, curl into himself just a little. He sighed out again.  
  
“Arthur…” he began.   
  
Arthur shook his head, stretching out so his arms hung over the side of the railing, limp in the air, reaching out towards the ocean but never making it. Alfred shifted closer, under the guise of looking out at the clouds and fog and sun. He belatedly remembered his cigarette, and smoked it in silence. No words passed between them for several minutes, though Alfred couldn’t, for whatever reason, quite manage to rid himself of the redness in his cheeks. But Arthur was not looking at him, so he wouldn’t have noticed anyway.   
  
“It seems that—humans could always learn that more,” Arthur murmured. “Whenever a war comes, whenever anything comes. Whenever they live.”   
  
Alfred finished his cigarette. He flicked it over the side and watched it tumble into the water.   
  
“You’re not making any sense,” Alfred said, laughing.   
  
“No,” Arthur said, grave. “I suppose I’m not.”   
  
They lapsed into another long silence. Alfred wished he had another cigarette.   
  
But suddenly Arthur was looking up at him, frowning, brows furrowed. Alfred started in surprise by the sudden movement, but did not pull his eyes away when they met with Arthur’s. He felt his cheeks heat up more—couldn’t even fathom why the hell—  
  
“I suppose it’s unfair to say we don’t have a lot to learn, either, though. But we, at least, have the benefit of time.”   
  
“Yeah,” Alfred said, not quite sure what he was agreeing to.   
  
Arthur nodded and looked away again, morose. Alfred hesitated for a moment, and then reached out a hand to touch at Arthur’s shoulder. He didn’t squeeze it, for fear of hurting the wounds he knew were still beneath the suit. He just left it there, a heavy presence. Arthur didn’t pull away, so Alfred hoped it offered some comfort.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
The four days passed quickly. Whatever the men had decided on, it had been a success.   
  
Alfred watched Roosevelt shake Churchill’s hand, and then Churchill’s bodyguard’s hand. “Take care of him,” he said, gravely, “He’s about the greatest man in the world. In fact, he may very likely _be_ the greatest.”   
  
The bodyguard nodded, and Churchill beamed, shaking Roosevelt’s hand again and saying, “Goodbye, Franklin.”   
  
And Alfred watched as the British filed their way back onto their ship, to sail back to England. Alfred bit his lip, and watched Arthur adjust beside him, waiting for his turn to climb back onto his own ship.   
  
Alfred’s hands twitched. He swallowed, ignored the thudding in his heart, and lifted his hand, touching Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur paused, looking up at him, and frowning.   
  
“Are you going to be okay?”   
  
Arthur gave him a skeptical, strained look. “I beg your pardon?”   
  
“I know Churchill’s probably not the happiest right now…”   
  
Arthur closed his eyes and sighed. “On our side of the ocean, Alfred, you must understand. Being called to this side like this—it appeared to us to be a sure sign of your declaration of war. For your… President’s kind heart and good intentions—he moves with public opinion rather than leads and forms it.”  
  
“It’s different here,” Alfred protested, wishing, above all else, to get Arthur to understand. “The President doesn’t lead Congress like the Prime Minister leads parliament. It’d be—it’d be wrong, to go against the people like that. It’d be overstepping his checks and balances.”   
  
“Perhaps,” Arthur said quietly. He nodded. “Your government was designed for centrality, for the inability to move and change things quickly. There’s stability in that. But even so…”   
  
He sighed out.   
  
Alfred wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult.   
  
“The flood is raging, Alfred.” Arthur was quiet, looking out over the bay. It was his turn to leave the ship, but he wasn’t moving. He glanced up at Alfred. “And all America will do is give us dry clothes. But only if we can manage to reach the shore.”  
  
Alfred opened his mouth to protest.  
  
Arthur shook his head. “No. I… understand. It’s taken me a while to understand, but I do. I understand the attitude. But I think it would be no strain on your people and resources to wade in, at least up to your waist. I say this because I am… frankly, I am disappointed with your people’s contribution to the rescue. But I understand.”   
  
Leave it to Arthur to fall into metaphors. But it left Alfred shaken, for just a moment. “I—”  
  
“I know,” Arthur whispered, and lifted his hand, touching Alfred’s cheek, very lightly, just a simple touch. Alfred wanted to flinch. Alfred wanted to react, somehow—but all he could do was let his breath catch. Arthur’s expression did not change. “I know, Alfred.”   
  
There was a quiet silence as Arthur pulled his hand away. But Alfred didn’t let him go far. He grabbed onto his wrist, softly, and held tight.   
  
“I’ll visit you soon,” he promised. “I’ll go back to England soon.”   
  
Arthur blinked at him in surprise, and then, for just a moment, his expression softened. Then just as quickly hardened out to practiced neutrality. “Do as you wish.”   
  
“I do,” Alfred said, earnest. He held on tight.   
  
Arthur nodded his head. Then he slowly took his hand back. “Goodbye, Alfred.”   
  
And then he walked away.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“I assure you,” Alfred listened as Roosevelt spoke through the radio, “in the wake of this meeting in Newfoundland, the United States of America is no closer to war than it was before.”  
  
Alfred listened, frowning, and crossing his arms over his chest.   
  
Behind him, one of the secretaries was writing out a telegram delivered as soon as the press conference was wrapped up.   
  
“It’s from Mr. Churchill,” the woman said.   
  
“What’s it say?” Alfred asked, not turning away from the radio.   
  
She read it out. Alfred only half-heard it, only listened in for the conclusion: “I don’t know what will happen if England is fighting alone when 1942 comes.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“They’re calling it the Atlantic Charter,” Alfred heard the secretaries say to one another. “That’s what Churchill called it in Parliament, too. Sounds much nicer, doesn’t it?”   
  
Alfred shuffled some papers, feeling utterly and completely bored. The United States was too quiet.   
  
Not that he wanted war. But the stagnation, the stiltedness. It was starting to grate on his nerves.   
  
He shuffled more papers.  
  
And more.  
  
And more.   
  
He got some coffee.  
  
Filed more papers.   
  
It continued. It continued.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Winant was there at the airport to meet Alfred. Alfred watched the ambassador smile widely when he caught sight of Alfred, and Alfred knew he was mimicking the expression—grinning like there was no tomorrow. Winant approached him, lifting his hand for a welcoming handshake, but Alfred sidestepped it, and pulled the ambassador into a hug. He heard Winant make a soft ‘oof’ sound as he did, and Alfred slackened his grip just a little. He felt the ambassador pat his back, and Alfred stepped away, grinning.   
  
“Hi, Ambassador.”   
  
Winant smiled. “Hello, Alfred. Welcome back.”   
  
Alfred nodded, and fell in step with Winant as they made their way out of the airport.   
  
It felt—he felt a strange relief, being back in England. Somehow in the long weeks he’d spent in England, and the weeks he’d spent away, had left him feeling familiar with the countryside. The familiar sky, the familiar smell of the air, the familiar sound of the world on this island. He could understand, if only somewhat, why so many people were striving to find their way to London, through the occupied zones.   
  
“I hope there’s work to be done,” Alfred said, grinning. “So long as it’s not a lot of paperwork. I am really, really sick of paperwork.”  
  
“I’ll see what I can do,” Winant said, still seeming rather cheerful.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Alfred stood in the square, the embassy behind him. It was still a little desolate looking. Piles of rubble, destroyed windows, destroyed buildings—they hadn’t the materials to rebuild, just like any other Londoner. But, somehow, it was achingly comfortable.   
  
He stuffed his hands into his pockets, smiling to himself and rocking back and forth on his heels.   
  
“Should I go see him?” he asked himself. “Tell him I’m back and all.”  
  
He rocked back and forth a little, thinking it over. He remembered Arthur on the ship, their conversations—the way that, somehow, for whatever reason, Alfred couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t get his face to stop heating up.   
  
_Why do you care—_   
  
He stopped rocking.   
  
He turned on his heel and went back to the embassy. He’d greet Arthur later—not today.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
It took him a week to visit Arthur. He approached, slowly. He climbed the steps to his door, saw that only canvas covered the gaping hole in one of the walls of his home. It was okay now, since it was August and still warm—but Alfred hoped the idiot wouldn’t keep coming back here, antique rugs or no, once the winter months started to roll in.   
  
He knocked. He didn’t burst in—somehow, it’d been too long since May. He couldn’t justify to himself just barging in on his own because he felt like it. It made his face heat up at the thought. He cleared his throat a few times.   
  
It took a few minutes, but, finally, the door opened. Arthur’s brows were furrowed, but they lifted in surprise when he saw who it was—  
  
“Alfred?” Arthur asked. “You’re back.”   
  
“Yeah, for about a week now,” Alfred said, grinning. “I’m surprised your boss didn’t tell you or something.”  
  
Arthur huffed, and then silently stepped back, opening the door wider for Alfred. Alfred walked inside, looking around—it was a little cleaner than the last time Alfred had been there. Still dusty. Still a little cluttered. But at least there was organization to the clutter.   
  
“I am not required to interact with my boss every waking moment, I thank you,” Arthur said, turning his back and retreating into his house. Alfred followed him. “You’ve good timing, lad. I have some tea this time—just recently was able to get some.”   
  
“Save it for yourself,” Alfred said, looking up at the ceiling as he walked, tracing the walls, eyeing the windows. “No sense in wasting it on me.”  
  
Arthur looked as if he wanted to protest, but he just grunted. Alfred dropped down onto a chair at the kitchen table and watched Arthur as he moved.   
  
“You should be begging for tea, you know,” Arthur told the teakettle. “You’re lucky that I even have gas, or water to boil.”   
  
“ _I’m_ lucky? Sounds like you’re the one who should be lucky.”  
  
“The guest is always luckier,” Arthur said, primly. He started to boil water, presumably for himself. If he tried to give Alfred a cup, there’d be hell to pay.   
  
“Yeah, whatever, Arthur.” Alfred leaned back in the chair, hoisting his feet up onto the table.   
  
Arthur swooped in instantly, slapping the back of Alfred’s with such force that Alfred nearly lost his balance and toppled over onto his back. “Ow, _fuck!_ ”  
  
“What the devil do you think you’re doing! Get your feet off my table. That’s an—”  
  
“An antique, an antique. Okay, okay. Jes _us_.”   
  
“And even if it wasn’t, it’s still rude to do something in someone else’s house!”   
  
“Okay, Jesus Christ!” Alfred said as Arthur continued to swat at him until Alfred was sitting with proper posture in the chair. He rubbed the back of his head. “Fuck, Arthur.”   
  
“And don’t forget, lest I cut your feet off next time,” Arthur said with a disdainful sniff, and, Alfred dared to think, a touch of playfulness in his voice—  
  
Somehow, they’d gotten a little comfortable around each other.   
  
When the hell had that happened?   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**  
  
\- You’re probably thinking wait, what the hell, didn’t Roosevelt have polio? Why is he walking around? Well, at during the time of his presidency, Roosevelt was able to convince many people that he was getting better, which he believed was essential if he was to run for public office again. Fitting his hips and legs with iron braces, he laboriously taught himself to walk a short distance by swiveling his torso while supporting himself with a cane. In private, he used a wheelchair, but he was careful never to be seen in it in public. He usually appeared in public standing upright, supported on one side by an aide or one of his sons.   
  
\- [The Atlantic Charter.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atlantic_charter) Early in the morning of August 9, British and American ships met in Placentia Bay, Newfoundland.   
  
\- Churchill was incredibly nervous leading up to this meeting. He felt it was to be one of the most fateful encounters of his life, and he, along with Parliament and a good chunk of the country, felt that a declaration of the war was guaranteed during this meeting. During the five-day voyage from England to Newfoundland, he was a nervous but, according to his bodyguard, “never had shown so much exuberance and excitement.” Said another of Churchill’s aides: “He had firmly determined from 1940 onwards that nothing must stand in the way of his friendship for the President on which so much depended.”   
  
\- Many people were nervous about the meeting, though. Mostly because both Churchill and Roosevelt were proud individuals. People were incredibly nervous of how they would mesh, especially since both were used to being the center of attention and the leader of discussions. The nervousness ended up being unjustified, however, as the two hit it off very well. Churchill was incredibly humble to his American host, and constantly fretted and questioned (pulling Harriman aside, for example) whether or not Roosevelt liked him. But they hit it off well. Thirty-year-old Elliott Roosevelt, who was accustomed to seeing his father “dominating every gathering he was part of,” was amazed that, during the sessions with Churchill, he actually listened. Churchill, for his part, was assiduous in deferring to FDR and repeatedly described himself as “The president’s lieutenant.” After a few hours, they were referring to each other by first name.   
  
\- While their friendship was never as close as Churchill later made it out to be in his memoirs, the American and British leaders established an “easy intimacy, a joking informality… a degree of frankness” at the meeting that continued throughout their four-year relationship. After their last shipboard session, Roosevelt urged Churchill’s bodyguard to “take care of him. He’s about the greatest man in the world. In fact he may very likely _be_ the greatest.” The president would later tell his wife that the Newfoundland conference “had broken the ice,” and that he knew now that Churchill “was a man with whom he could really work.” About Roosevelt, Churchill wrote years later: “I formed a very strong affection which grew with our years of comradeship.”   
  
\- The Atlantic Charter was a crushing defeat for the British, however, as they’d expected and hoped for a declaration of war. Churchill told his associates before leaving for the voyage that he did not think that the President would summon him to North America unless he was prepared to enter the war. He actually did say, “I would rather have a declaration of war now and no supplies for six months than double the supplies and nod declaration.” Most of the phrases in the scene that Alfred overhears are actually stated by Churchill and Roosevelt, though not necessarily during the meeting.   
  
\- Arthur’s flood metaphor was actually written by the _Times._   
  
\- After the Atlantic Charter, Roosevelt held a press conference reassuring the USAmerican people that the US was no closer to entering the war. This was a crushing blow to British morale, and the telegram that Alfred reads was actually sent in response to Roosevelt’s statements to Harry Hopkins.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life moves on in London.
> 
> Time stamp: September of 1941.

  
  
Arthur was there—in the embassy.   
  
That _never_ happened. In fact, Alfred couldn’t remember a time when Arthur had ever come to visit him, or anyone in the embassy for that matter. Alfred dropped his paperwork in shock when the door to Winant’s office flew open and _Arthur_ of all people was the one walking in, face grim and expression set, determined.   
  
“Did you hear?” Arthur said without preamble, stooping to the ground to help Alfred pick up his dropped papers. Alfred scrambled to get all the forms, now in the wrong order, without having to meet Arthur’s face and potentially hear teasing about his clumsiness. And he struggled even more not to bump his hand against Arthur’s, which was difficult when they were both moving for the same sheets of paper.   
  
“Huh?” he asked, not sure what exactly he was meant to have heard.   
  
“For fuck’s sake, boy,” Arthur muttered, and shook his head. He looked up at Alfred, taking his eyes off the pages of paper littering the floor. “No matter, no matter. It’s—Again, your president tiptoes to the edge of confrontation!”   
  
“What happened?” Alfred asked, nearly shouted. Something jumped up into his throat and he almost stuttered. “Arthur, tell me!”   
  
“One of your destroyers—it exchanged torpedoes with a German submarine in the middle of the Atlantic.”  
  
Alfred paled instantly. “Did any—”  
  
Arthur shook his head. “So far there are no reported causalities, and no damage.’   
  
Alfred breathed a sigh of relief. He stood up, shuffling the papers now. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur stand as well, adjusting his tie and his jacket lapels. Alfred wandered over to the desk, dropping the pages down onto a relatively clean portion of Winant’s desk, and started the Herculean task of rearranging the sheets of paper back into their proper order. Everything was knocked askew, but he was having a hard time concentrating.   
  
Arthur followed him. “Your president announced that, from now on, your vessels will ‘shoot on sight’ any German U-boats or warships they encounter.”   
  
Alfred looked up, alarmed. “We decl—”  
  
Arthur shook his head. “No. He did not declare war. But this is… this is essentially a naval war against Germany.”   
  
“Jesus Christ,” Alfred breathed. “And my people are okay with that?”   
  
“You tell me,” Arthur said, and, uncharacteristically, even shrugged one shoulder. “You’ve told me time and time again that your people resist war no matter what.”   
  
“Yeah,” Alfred said. “I’ll ask the ambassador about it, later. He’s up at Chequers right now.”   
  
“Of course,” Arthur said, folding his arms over his chest, and taking a look around the room, seeing it for the first time. He turned his face away from Alfred. Then, he wandered around the room—observing everything. He stopped only to stare at the window, stare out at the view.  
  
Alfred watched him like a hawk, unable to tear his eyes away and momentarily forgetting about the work he was supposed to be doing in the ambassador’s absence. There was nothing captivating happening. Arthur only stood there, back to Alfred. Arthur stayed at the window for a long moment, and made a soft snort, not quite of amusement, but perhaps recognition.  
  
“Arthur?” Alfred asked, unable to maintain the silence and remain comfortable at the same time.   
  
“I remember this place,” Arthur said. His voice was soft, laced with memories. “It’s been a while since I’ve visited here, but.”  
  
He said nothing for a moment.   
  
Alfred continued to watch him. Abandoning the papers, he moved to Arthur’s side, pushing one hand to the window-frame and slumping to peer out the window in the only part that wasn’t covered completely by plastic sheeting, left-overs from the nights of bombing.   
  
Arthur was looking at—  
  
Alfred remained slumped, peering out. Arthur remained standing straight, expression grim.   
  
“John Adams stayed there,” Arthur said, quietly, as if Alfred didn’t already know.   
  
But Alfred started in surprise, shifting his eyes to stare up at Arthur in shock. “You remember that?”   
  
“I do,” Arthur admitted, and there was a touch of heat to his cheeks.   
  
Alfred’s surprise knew no bounds. He continued to stare openly at Arthur until Arthur jerked his face away, embarrassed. Alfred said, mystified, “I would have thought you wouldn’t have ever paid attention to shit like that—I mean. You hated me and all that.”   
  
Arthur shifted his face again to look at Alfred, as if he would say something. But then he thought better of it, lapsing into silence for a moment before speaking. “I suppose it would seem odd.” He paused, expression wrinkling, warping. He smoothed it out before speaking again—neutrality. “I was quite determined to hate you, it’s true,” Arthur said, softly. “I wanted nothing more than to hate you.”   
  
Alfred felt his blood run cold. He swallowed, thickly.   
  
“Oh.” He couldn’t say anything more around the knob in his throat.   
  
Arthur continued to stare out over the square, watching the first ambassador’s home, lightly damaged now from bombs. Blasted out windows. A gutted house—a shrine to a memory that was so rarely dug up. The two shifted, a little uncomfortable.   
  
Arthur straightened, and pulled away from the hole in the plastic, turning his face away.   
  
Alfred sat down on the windowsill, watching Arthur as he moved around the room, hands behind his back, shoulders stiff and proper, chin held high.   
  
Before he could second-guess himself, before he could think better of it, Alfred, very quietly, asked, “Do you still hate me?”   
  
Arthur froze, pretended to read over the spines of the books on Winant’s expansive bookshelf. He was silent. He did not answer right away. Alfred realized he was holding his breath, and let it out in a slow exhale. His heart pounded against his ribcage, mocking him.   
  
“Do you believe I hate you?” Arthur asked instead of answering, wiping his hand over a bookshelf and staring at the dust that came off in his hand. He dusted his hands together to rid himself of the stain. He didn’t turn to look at Alfred—kept his eyes trained steadily downwards.   
  
Alfred didn’t move from the window. He swallowed a few times, finding that his throat was quickly closing off—he felt like he was swaying back and forth, side to side. He was stuck. He was caught.   
  
He couldn’t breathe. “I—um.”   
  
“Do you believe I ever managed to hate you?” Arthur asked, very quickly, his back to Alfred—so quietly that Alfred almost missed it entirely.  
  
“ _Uh._ Yeah?” Alfred would have laughed, if he found the situation amusing. But he didn’t. His eyebrows knitted together. “You kind of made a big deal of showing me how much you despised my very existence.”   
  
“Never you,” Arthur elaborated, and shook his head. He turned, suddenly, and Alfred caught sight of his face, an unfamiliar expression—  
  
Arthur moved swiftly towards the door.   
  
“I should go, I—”  
  
“—Wait,” Alfred said, finding himself moving from the window before he could even speak the word, reaching out a hand and grabbing onto Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur cringed, and Alfred loosened his grip, apologetic. “Wait,” he said, softer this time. “You don’t have to leave yet—I mean. Um. Without Winant around, all I’ve been doing is work and that’s boring.”   
  
Arthur, stiff under his hold, didn’t respond. He didn’t turn to look at Alfred, keeping his head pointedly looking elsewhere.   
  
“Are you hungry? Um. I have some food back at my apartment.”   
  
Arthur stayed deathly silent, and Alfred was sure that if he were to let go, Arthur would bolt. But after a moment, Arthur sighed instead, shoulders slumping. “Very well.”   
  
Alfred smiled to himself, feeling inexplicably relieved, and released his shoulder. “Cool. Come on.”  
  
The walk from the embassy to Alfred’s apartment was a short one, but uncomfortably silent. With every step, Alfred began to question the intelligence of this idea—maybe he should have let Arthur leave. Now there was that uncomfortable stilt of unspoken words hovering between them. Alfred hated that more than anything else he could imagine. He swallowed, thickly. He had trouble pushing in the key to the lock of his apartment, but after a few tense moments he managed to swing the door open and entered.   
  
“Make yourself comfortable,” Alfred said. “This is your first time in here, yeah?” He grinned, suddenly feeling far too self-conscious. It was only _Arthur_ , for fuck’s sake—not a girl or anything like that. “Um. There’s not much to see. I don’t spend a lot of time here, usually.”  
  
Arthur was either not listening or was ignoring Alfred. He moved through Alfred’s apartment, taking in every corner and slope of the walls, of the furniture, of the view from the windows.   
  
“Anyway,” Alfred said, shifting uneasily. “Right, food.”  
  
He retreated to the kitchen, started digging around for some food. His stomach gurgled in sympathy when he eyed how little he actually had—damned rationing, he’d gotten used to the portions back home—but he didn’t let it stop him. He collected what he had and started making some sad-looking sandwiches.   
  
It would be easier if he could turn off his ability to see things like that. The expressions Arthur wore. What he was saying when he spoke—it’d be easier if these things just flew over his head. He folded some smoked ham he’d brought from the US onto the sandwiches, staled, pathetic-looking pieces of bread. It’d be easier, then, if he didn’t have to see and think about these things.   
  
“So just stop thinking about it,” he told himself. “Easy enough. It’d be easier in the long run, too.”   
  
“What would?” a voice asked behind him, and Alfred jumped. A piece of ham went flying. Alfred whipped out his hand and caught the flying piece of ham mid-air.   
  
When he turned to look, Arthur was standing there, looking like he was torn between being impressed by Alfred’s reflexes, or amused by the fact that he’d caught him in a conversation with himself.   
  
“Nothing,” Alfred said. He wiggled the ham between finger and thumb, grinning wickedly. “This’ll be mine. Remember the sandwich on the right is yours, then.”  
  
Alfred laid the piece of ham he’d grasped in his hand on the left sandwich. Arthur leaned his hip against the counter, arms folded. He watched Alfred work. Alfred could feel his eyes on him, and he felt self-conscious, felt like a bug squirming, pinned to a wall. He swallowed, finished the sandwiches, and grabbed plates. He handed the one on the right over to Arthur.   
  
Arthur took it with a curt nod, straightening his posture. Alfred bit into his sandwich to prevent himself from having to speak. He chewed with renewed vigor. Arthur ate his fairly quickly as well—and Alfred realized that the man must have been hungrier than he ever let on.   
  
“I don’t see why Germany doesn’t declare war on _me_ ,” Alfred said, staring down at his sandwich. “I mean. If my destroyers are shooting ships and submarines on sight.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur muttered, then bit into his sandwich. He chewed and swallowed before continuing, “Germany wouldn’t be so foolish as to declare war on _you._ You, who is content to remain ‘neutral’ through this entire ordeal. Declaring war on you is very much like poking a sleeping bear in the eye. It won’t give the axis powers any benefit if you were to join the fray.”   
  
Alfred picked at his sandwich, glum. He frowned. “Yeah…”  
  
“The way things are—that suits Germany just fine,” Arthur said. “Especially now that Japan is moving.”   
  
“Yeah,” Alfred repeated, frowning. “Sweeping through Indochina like it’s nothing.”   
  
“If Japan takes any of my bases, I won’t be able to retaliate,” Arthur said. “I’m stretched enough as it is giving aid to the damned Red Army and trying to support my men in the Middle East.”   
  
Alfred chewed his sandwich, morose.   
  
Arthur sighed, picking at his sandwich a little, too. His eyes were looking far away—far beyond the apartment.   
  
“You were friends with Japan, though,” Alfred said.   
  
“So were you. That didn’t stop you from freezing Japanese assets and imposing an embargo on the shipment of oil, iron, and steel… now did it?”   
  
“… Why do you know so much, Jesus,” Alfred said, scratching at his neck.   
  
“Friendship between countries can only last so long, Alfred.” Arthur set down his empty plate, looking anywhere but at Alfred. “They come and go. It changes. It’s only… it’s only politics.”   
  
“It’s only ‘posturing and egotism’—whatever the hell you said, before. Yeah?”   
  
“For the most part. Yes.” Arthur was quiet for a moment, tracing his finger along the rim of the plate. Then he sighed. “Thank you. For the food.”   
  
“Yeah, don’t mention it,” Alfred muttered. He stepped a little closer. Arthur did not look up. Alfred licked his lips, bit at the lower lip, and chewed. “What about us?”  
  
“What _about_ us?” Arthur repeated, and finally did look up, slightly alarmed.   
  
Alfred backpedalled. It was veering too closely to—to something, anything—something he never wanted to talk about, not now, not with Arthur. It’d be better to avoid it. Better to ignore it. Better to pretend it wasn’t there. That’s—  
  
“Is our relation—is the relationship between our two countries just posturing?”   
  
“You tell me,” Arthur said. “I can hardly call it a friendship, really.”   
  
“Because you’re using me and I’m using you,” Alfred guessed, and ate the rest of his sandwich, looking off into the middle-distance, away from Arthur.   
  
“Precisely,” Arthur said, and his voice sounded a bit thick, just a bit strained. “They can paint it however they want—but for our countries, for any country, it’s always just politics.”   
  
“That’s… what it means to be a nation,” Alfred said quietly.   
  
Somehow, it didn’t sit well with him.   
  
It didn’t seem to sit well with Arthur, either, because he sighed out and muttered, “I need a drink.”   
  
“Yeah,” Alfred agreed.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Which naturally found them at a pub a short while later. It was strange, really, to be somewhere where he almost couldn’t notice the hollowness in the citizens’ eyes. And it was strange to be around women who kept smiling at him, almost shyly, and crossing their legs in a way that was meant to be suggestive. He could see the way their skirts hitched up, just a little, with their slow movements. And he was staring.   
  
“Stop making eyes at my girls,” Arthur muttered beside him, and ordered two pints for them.   
  
“I’m not, they’re making eyes at me,” Alfred half-whined.   
  
Arthur scowled at him, and shoved a pint at Alfred when the drinks arrived.   
  
“Ew, it’s warm,” Alfred said, pulling away from a long gulp. “And this is some weak-ass beer, Arthur.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Arthur muttered, taking a long drink from the mug. He let out a satisfied little sigh when he pulled away, but the contented look in his eyes rippled away to one of annoyance when he saw Alfred was still making a face. “It tastes better during peacetime. You’ll just have to make do with what you get, boy.” His expression grew a touch sad, and he sighed. “It really is… better. All of it. When my country is at its best—”  
  
He shook his head, and the scowl returned. He took another long drink and pulled away, pointing a finger at Alfred.  
  
“If you don’t like it, you can go fuck yourself.”   
  
“Ha ha,” Alfred laughed, feeling a touch nervous, and pushing a fist against Arthur’s shoulder, tapping it lightly. “Relax, old man. It’s fine.”   
  
He drank the beer. It was gross. It was weak and warm, but he could deal with it, for now. Beer was beer, in the end, and it’d been a long time since Alfred had done something that didn’t involve politics and didn’t involve the embassy. A pub with Arthur was as good as it was going to get.   
  
At least there were pretty girls. And at least those pretty girls were smiling at him. He smiled back—it’d been a while since he’d spent time with a girl, too. He should have taken advantage of that sooner. Women all over seemed charmed by his accent (or something).   
  
Arthur was scowling at him darkly.   
  
Alfred grinned. He tapped his pint against Arthur’s. “Cheers.”   
  
“Cheers, you right tit,” Arthur said. “I’ll drink to that.”  
  
“Old bastard,” Alfred replied, voice a touch playful.   
  
They drank.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Buy me another,” Arthur demanded, slamming down his empty pint.  
  
“But I bought the last one!” Alfred whined.   
  
“You can afford it,” Arthur said, face deadly serious and lips thinned into a taut line.   
  
Alfred sighed and relented, but only because he didn’t want to cause a scene. Especially since there was a pretty girl serving drinks across the way who kept looking over at him and smiling a pretty little smile, complete with little dimples.   
  
He smiled at her now, even, and she smiled back. Arthur twisted around to see what Alfred was looking at, and when he set his eyes on Alfred again, he was scowling.   
  
Alfred’s grin only widened when he caught sight of Arthur’s expression. “Jealous that one of your own likes me more than you?”  
  
“I am not jealous,” Arthur said with a disdainful sniff. “Where’s my drink?”   
  
“Right, right.”   
  
Alfred went about taking care of Arthur’s drinking needs, hoping that the man wouldn’t end up getting drunk because of it.   
  
After a few minutes, drink in hand, Arthur went about guzzling down the pint of ale or whatever it was he was drinking. Alfred was still nursing his second drink, but he kept glancing around the pub and catching pretty girl’s eyes whenever he could, ignoring the way the lip of his pint glass kept tapping against his glasses in his quest to drink and stare at the same time.   
  
“Man, Arthur,” Alfred said when he set his glass down, leaning in as if it were some great secret he was about to tell the other man. Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Who knew that you had such pretty girls in this country? Ha ha!”   
  
He said it loudly, and to his happy surprise, some of the girls had heard him. One of them even blushed. Victory.   
  
“Would you stop that?” Arthur demanded.   
  
“Stop what?”  
  
“Acting like a damned obnoxious _American._ ”   
  
“No way,” Alfred said, and would have cheered if Arthur hadn’t actually _kicked him under the table._   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Are you drunk?” Alfred asked as the two wandered their way back towards the embassy in the wake of the blackout. They stumbled through the dark.   
  
Arthur snorted beside him. “Not at all. You think a few drinks are enough to do that?”   
  
Alfred shrugged and didn’t answer. He’d only had a few drinks himself, but he was feeling buzzed, and there was a slight wobble in his step. He couldn’t really look Arthur in the eye to see if he was glassy-eyed at all, but he certainly was walking normally. It was probably just as well. Alfred could remember what a drunk Arthur was like, and it wasn’t pretty.   
  
“Yeah, especially with that weak beer,” Alfred laughed.  
  
Arthur shoved him and Alfred stumbled a little too much before regaining his footing and tottering back to Arthur. He would shove him back but, mindful of the scars and wounds that still lurked underneath his shirt, he settled for cursing Arthur—the effect was ruined when Alfred broke off into a little laugh, though.   
  
“I am never drinking with you again, by the way,” Arthur said, primly in the darkness.  
  
“What? Why?” Alfred asked. It wasn’t his fault he got really enthusiastic in places that offered drink. It was only recently that he’d been able to start drinking at _all_ , with prohibition finally lifted back home.   
  
“You were loud and obnoxious,” Arthur said, and Alfred could just imagine he was rolling his eyes as he spoke. “Catching all attention no matter what.”   
  
“Are you jealous all the girls were paying attention to me?”  
  
“Don’t you dare get any thought into your head to do anything with any of my women,” Arthur said, deadly serious, and Alfred laughed with only the smallest touch of nervousness. “I’m serious, Alfred. I won’t have you fooling around with any of them. It’s bad enough your Americans are making a mockery of the Churchills.”  
  
“Okay, okay, geez.” Alfred tucked his hands into his pockets. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Yes, yes, no one has _any_ idea,” Arthur muttered to himself. He cleared his throat. “Just remember that. I won’t stand for you using one of them and breaking her poor heart afterward.”   
  
“I said okay already,” Alfred whined. “Stop lecturing me for something I haven’t even done!”   
  
He almost stumbled again as they stepped down into the street and followed it up towards the embassy—they could both see it in the distance.   
  
“Just remember,” Arthur muttered, and pointedly turned his face away.  
  
Alfred ignored him.   
  
They made it to the embassy, and a few paces later, to the apartments where the embassy workers, and Alfred, stayed.   
  
“Hey,” Alfred said. “Let’s go to the roof.”  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
“Come on,” Alfred said, leaning back and grabbing Arthur’s wrist before he could protest, and tugging very softly. He kept tugging until Arthur gave in and allowed for Alfred to drag him up the stairs to the roof.   
  
Alfred grinned as he walked across the roof, hands on his hips. He could hear Arthur following behind him, a slower pace. He turned around when he could, grinning widely.   
  
“The night sky. It’s really pretty when the lights are all out.”   
  
Arthur was looking up. “It’s a full moon.”  
  
“Yeah. Means there aren’t as many stars as normal but… it’s still a lot. Usually in cities you can’t see that much, because of all the lights.”   
  
Arthur was still looking up. Then he walked, slowly, to Alfred’s side. Alfred looked up at the sky, too. They spent a few silent moments looking up at the sky.   
  
“It’s been a long time,” Arthur said.   
  
“Since what? Seeing stars?”   
  
Arthur shook his head a little. “Since there’s been a full moon without a bombing.”  
  
Alfred froze up, and felt a chill run down his spine despite the relative warmth of the night. So much time had passed—Alfred could remember, in vivid detail, when the bombs had returned. He could remember running, without restraint, searching for Arthur. But even before that, he could remember his first few days in London, staring up at the sky and hoping for nothing more than to be able to go home.   
  
“No bombing at all?” Alfred asked, surprised, and realized that he hadn’t seen Arthur shudder once during the night—usually, there was always at least a few shudders.   
  
Arthur shook his head. “Russia takes the brunt of it, now. Occasionally a straggler will fly over my country, just to remind me that they intend to break my morale. But… no. For the most part, all efforts are on breaking Russia.”   
  
“Is it working?” Alfred asked.  
  
“I haven’t the faintest clue. The Germans are advancing on the Soviets. I don’t find it unlikely that they can be defeated within a few weeks.”   
  
Alfred sobered up, and watched Arthur’s eyes drift off to someplace far away, further than even the sky.   
  
Alfred, then, dropped down to the roof. He tugged on Arthur’s pant leg, looking up at expectantly. Arthur stared down at him, incredulous.   
  
“My trousers—”  
  
“Fuck your ‘trousers’, they’re already dirty,” Alfred dismissed. “Sitting on your ass isn’t going to make them any worse.”   
  
Arthur groaned low in his throat, and in the pale, powdery moonlight, Alfred did catch Arthur’s eye roll this time. But he still sat down, settling down beside Alfred. Alfred grinned, and leaned back against his hands, stretching his legs out across the cold, flat surface of the building’s roof.   
  
“I always wondered,” Alfred said, picking up a pebble and tossing it towards the railing surrounding the roof, to keep anyone on the top level from falling off. “How do these little pebbles get up onto building roofs?”   
  
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Arthur muttered, looking up at the stars, tracing the constellations.   
  
Alfred glanced at him, when he was sure that Arthur wasn’t looking. His breath caught, for half a moment, but he ignored it. He leaned back further, staring up at the moon. So much time had passed. But in the end it was hardly anything. A few months. But so much had changed in a few months. He leaned back further, so that he was practically lying down, behind Arthur. He studied the slope of Arthur’s neck, the bumps of his spine peeking out from under his collar. The tension in his shoulders.   
  
“Have you healed?” Alfred asked, suddenly.   
  
Arthur froze up, and Alfred watched his shoulders stiffen. Then he turned, slowly, twisting around to view Alfred, planting a hand down on the roof to keep him from falling over.   
  
“Enough so,” Arthur said. “Some of the wounds will continue to reopen, perhaps. Most of them have become scars now.”   
  
Alfred sighed out, and let himself sink down the rest of the way, lying out on his back. He settled his hands down onto his stomach, and watched them with strange fascination as his breathing let them rise up and down in a settled motion.   
  
“Do they hurt?” Alfred asked his hands.   
  
“The scars?” Arthur shook his head. “No, it’s just old tissue that can’t heal properly. That’s all scars are. There may be damage underneath, and that could hurt. But it’s only knitted skin.”   
  
He lapsed into silence. Alfred shifted his eyes up to watch Arthur. The other man sighed, shifting, adjusting, so he was facing Alfred without having to twist his body around.   
  
“Not at all?” Alfred asked. “You’re not lying and saying they don’t hurt, are you?”  
  
“I am not lying,” Arthur muttered. “You don’t have to worry over something so small.”  
  
Alfred almost protested, loudly, that of course he wasn’t worried—but maybe it was because of all the months staring down at him, or perhaps he drink making his brain fuzzy, but he let it go. He didn’t say anything. He only nodded.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Arthur nodded, absently, and if he noticed Alfred’s silent admission, he didn’t acknowledge it. He looked back up at the moon for a long moment, and Alfred traced the curve of his throat, watched the way he swallowed, once, and his adam’s apple bobbed down and then back up.   
  
Alfred’s hands felt a little cold. He curled them together over his stomach.   
  
“Hey,” Alfred said.   
  
“Yes?” Arthur asked, not turning his attention away from the night sky.   
  
“This is kinda nice.”   
  
“Hm?”   
  
“Spending time together. It’s kinda nice.”  
  
Arthur was silent.   
  
“Did you hear me? Cause I’m not going to repeat that,” Alfred muttered, feeling the blush creeping up his neck, settling in his cheeks, and dangerously close to creeping up to the tips of his ears. He lifted a hand to fix his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious and kind of hating it.   
  
“I heard you,” Arthur said softly.   
  
Then he shifted, slightly, a frown on his face as he leaned over Alfred. He blocked Alfred’s view of the night sky, momentarily, and Alfred just stared up at him. Stared at the way the gravity pulled Arthur’s hair into his face, over his eyes. Stared at the way Arthur was backlit by the moon, and his face arched into long shadows.   
  
“I heard you,” Arthur repeated, softer still. He hesitated. He looked as if he wanted to do something, say something—anything. But he shifted. And then, just as suddenly as he was there, he was gone, turning his back on Alfred and snorting out, “And I suppose it’s nice for me, as well. But that’s simply because it’s been a long time since I’ve had a nice view of the night sky. It has nothing to do with you.”   
  
Alfred sighed out, and heard Arthur sigh in turn. Alfred watched, in silence, as the tension seeped out of Arthur’s shoulders.   
  
“Yeah,” Alfred agreed. “Okay.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Over the course of the month, Alfred made a point to visit Arthur. Every time he came over, Arthur’s home seemed a little cleaner. Less cluttered every day.  
  
One day, Alfred pointed this out, after the third visit in about a week and a half. “Your place looks a little less cluttered.”  
  
Arthur snorted, and turned his face away. “I’ve been cleaning. Is that so hard to believe?”   
  
Alfred ran his fingertip across a wooden table, withdrawing his hand and seeing a long streak of dust across his fingertip. He heard Arthur clear his throat, and when Alfred turned to look at him, Arthur was walking briskly away. Alfred stood in strange shock for a moment until Arthur finally did return, cloth in hand. He grabbed Alfred’s hand, painfully tight, so tight that Alfred jumped a little. But Arthur just wiped Alfred’s hand with the cloth, stepped back, and went about dusting the room. He pointedly ignored Alfred.  
  
So Alfred followed behind him, keeping his hands in his pockets and wandering a little, taking in all the corners of Arthur’s house he’d started to ignore after the first few visits to Arthur.   
  
“Man, do you do anything other than clean?”   
  
Arthur wrinkled his nose in displeasure at such a foolish question. Alfred just grinned.   
  
“Excuse me for wishing to live in a clean environment.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Alfred said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He rolled back and forth on the balls and heels of his feet, humming to himself. “It just seems to be all you do whenever I visit.”  
  
“Perhaps you choose horrid times to visit, then,” Arthur sniffed. “Nothing is _keeping_ you here, so if it displeases you so much you can leave.”   
  
“And miss out on some of your watery tea? No way.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“It seems that you and Sir Kirkland are getting along, lately,” Winant said, his voice remarkably casual as he spoke.  
  
Alfred shrugged his shoulders, settling onto the couch and making himself more comfortable. Forced nonchalance. “What makes you think that?”  
  
“You are spending a little more time together,” the ambassador said, typing something up on the typewriter. It clicked back and forth, an endless punctuation of their conversation. Loud and invasive. Alfred tried to focus on it.   
  
Alfred shrugged again. “Not really.” The typing stopped. Alfred cleared his throat. “I mean, at least he isn’t bugging me about the war anymore. But he still finds ways to criticize me. And he lectures me.”  
  
“Doesn’t that mean he’s just comfortable with you?” the ambassador asked.   
  
Alfred frowned up at the ceiling. He hadn’t thought about that.   
  
“You’d think he’d be nice to me if he was comfortable around me.”   
  
“That isn’t how Sir Kirkland is,” Winant reminded, gently. The typing resumed for a moment. “You should know that more than anyone.”  
  
Alfred continued to frown up at the ceiling. Winant continued to type on the typewriter.   
  
“Unless you don’t think so?” the ambassador asked.  
  
“No… I guess you’re right,” Alfred said, quietly. “I would know.”   
  
But he rolled onto his side, sighing, trying to think of something else before memories of his childhood returned to him, memories of a prickly guardian who was always kind, but horrendously awkward, easily flustered. He could remember it, picture it perfectly. And he could picture, perfectly, when those light criticisms and flustered admissions of affection just—stopped. Stopped, and were replaced with quietly withheld disdain and disappointment. That’s how it was with Arthur—it meant comfort for him when he could criticize, when he could admit to failings in himself and in his young charge, but love him regardless.   
  
Alfred stared hard at the ceiling, tried so hard to focus on the sound of typing.   
  
No, Arthur’s discomfort with people meant a practiced neutrality, a withdrawing. Perfectly distant.   
  
He didn’t want to remember—  
  
But it was too late. He could remember it all. Somehow, telling himself not to think about it never helped him not think about it.   
  
He sighed, sinking into the couch, and rolling over to get comfortable, eyes on the ground. It offered no comfort. He closed his eyes for a long moment.   
  
It wasn’t quite the same as it was then. Of course it wouldn’t be. It could never be the same again. But after having the ambassador point it out, he could see it. Arthur was like that with everyone—reserved and proper to those he was uncomfortable with. It wasn’t until he was comfortable—  
  
“I guess a lot of time has passed.”   
  
“Hm?” the ambassador asked, looking up. “Did you say something, Alfred?”  
  
Alfred sat up, waving his hand. “No, no. Sorry. Just talking to myself.”   
  
He hadn’t thought about it the way the ambassador had presented it. Alfred supposed there was only one way to know for sure.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Hey, Arthur,” Alfred said, walking into his house without knocking.   
  
Arthur, for once, was not cleaning, but was, rather, reading a book in his dusty old armchair. He scowled when he saw Alfred.   
  
“Knock, you fool.”  
  
“Naw,” Alfred said, shutting the door behind him and toeing off his shoes—he remembered to do this because last time Arthur nearly killed him for tracking dirt into his newly cleaned house—and approaching the other man. “I have a question.”  
  
“What is it?” Arthur sighed, placing a bookmark in his book and setting it on the table beside his chair. He reached out a grabbed a teacup there and brought it to his lips. He frowned up at Alfred.   
  
“Are you comfortable with me?”   
  
Arthur stilled. Alfred half-expected a comical choke on his tea. But, instead, Arthur remained silent for a long moment, and then took a deep drink of his tea. He took his time setting the cup back down on the tableside before looking back up at Alfred.   
  
“Why do you ask?” he asked, voice calm, neutral, poised.   
  
Alfred wrinkled his nose. “Don’t answer my question with your own question.” He sighed out, and admitted, “The ambassador said that you probably felt comfortable around me.”  
  
“Are you comfortable around me?” Arthur asked, folding his hands together in his lap.   
  
Alfred frowned.   
  
He hadn’t thought of that, either. He thought about it now. But the answer was simple—  
  
“Yeah.”   
  
Arthur nodded, and stood up from his chair. He lifted his teacup and moved purposefully towards his kitchen. Alfred followed him.   
  
With his back to Alfred, Arthur finally said, “As am I.”   
  
“Really?” Alfred asked, surprised.  
  
“I am not repeating it,” Arthur muttered. Arthur kept his back to him, setting down his tea and working about his kitchen countertop. Alfred looked around the room. It seemed cleaner in here, too.   
  
Alfred leaned his hip against the table. The table whined against the unexpected weight, but Alfred ignored the wheeze of the wood.   
  
“I guess it’d make sense that you would be,” Alfred said, mostly to himself. “I mean, I have seen you naked.”  
  
Arthur’s shoulders tensed up.   
  
Alfred laughed. “And bleeding.”  
  
“Is that funny to you?” Arthur muttered.   
  
“Not really. Well. Maybe not the ha-ha funny. The weird funny.” Alfred crossed his arms, humming to himself as he studied his feet. He wiggled his toes. “When the president ordered me to come to London I didn’t really… think any of this would happen.”   
  
He licked his dry lips.   
  
Arthur didn’t say anything.   
  
“I was… pretty determined to have nothing to do with you,” Alfred said, unsure why he was speaking at all but finding that he didn’t want to stop. He shuffled his feet across the floor, slowly. “Didn’t want to see you, didn’t want to talk to you. Just wanted to stay in the embassy all day. And then go home and never come back.”   
  
He lapsed into silence.   
  
He swallowed, thickly. “You know what’s funny? When I was back home—the people there… I mean. The people who didn’t know _who_ I was thought I was just… being manipulated by the British, cause I’d spent so much time here. Cause of the things I was saying. It was weird.”   
  
Arthur said nothing.   
  
Alfred bit at his lip, uneasy. “Um. And it was… weird, to be back home. After so many months here. I mean. I’d gotten used to being here. I felt… I don’t know. Kind of lost, there. I mean… I’ve never been away from home that long. It was only a few months, yeah, but… I mean. I never stay away from home for long, not usually.”   
  
Arthur said nothing.   
  
“But,” Alfred continued. “I… dunno. I almost felt relieved, coming back here.”   
  
He bit his lip harder, unsure if he should keep speaking, feeling like he was burying himself into a hole and there was no way to climb out of it. But he just kept digging, because there was nothing else he could do.   
  
“Is that weird? To feel that way? To…” He trailed off, briefly. He sighed out. “To want to come back here?”   
  
Alfred frowned. He looked up at Arthur, who still had his back to him and had his head bowed.   
  
“Hey. Say something?” Alfred asked, quietly. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear—wasn’t sure why he wanted to hear Arthur say something, anything, so desperately. Some kind of reassurance. Some kind of— _anything_.   
  
Instead of answering, Arthur turned suddenly and shoved a plate against Alfred’s stomach, where a sad looking piece of bread had a smear of marmalade on it. He kept his face bowed, didn’t dare look up at Alfred.   
  
“Hey,” Alfred said, taking the plate only to hold it back out to Arthur. Arthur frowned at him, and crossed his arms. “Hey,” Alfred said again. Arthur looked up at him, still frowning. “I can’t take your marmalade. You barely get enough of this stuff for the month.”  
  
“It’s too sweet for me,” Arthur muttered, looking away. “Just take it.”   
  
Alfred frowned, but picked up the sad looking piece of bread and bit into it.   
  
“Orange,” Alfred said, and because he couldn’t help himself, because he didn’t want to help himself—he smiled. “It’s my favorite.”   
  
Arthur was still not looking at Alfred. His arms still crossed protectively over his chest. His cheeks were red.   
  
Then, quietly, he said, “I know.”   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**   
  
\- Time and again, circumstances almost propelled Roosevelt into the war. In September, he had seemed on the verge of entering the fray in the Battle of the Atlantic. After the American destroyer _Greer_ exchanged torpedoes with a German submarine in the middle of the Atlantic (resulting in no damage or casualties), Roosevelt announced that, from then on, American vessels would “shoot on sight” any German U-boats or warships they encountered. At the same time, he ordered a Navy escort for all merchant shipping—not just US ships—as far as Iceland. In effect, he had embarked on a naval war against Germany.   
  
\- This was mentioned in a previous chapter, but across from the US embassy in London was the home John Adams stayed in when he was ambassador to Britain.   
  
\- Also mentioned previously, Winant and Harriman, the two Americans closest to Churchill, were both engaged in affairs with members of Churchill’s family. Those cads.   
  
\- Japan during this time was not a static country. While the US paid all this attention and aid to the UK, citing neutrality, Japan was getting the other end of that neutrality: freezing of assets and trade embargoes. Roosevelt hoped that these measures would help curb against a fight in the Pacific, something he desperately wanted to avoid. The actions taken against Japan, however, only served to enrage it.   
  
\- Beer in Britain during the world wars was incredibly weak, due to rationing and lack of supplies to make alcohol. This did not keep people from drinking, however. (Especially the Americans who, though many of the young soldiers not being of age during Prohibition, still maintained a bit of the ‘alcohol is amazing and hard to get’ mentality in the culture itself.)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Churchill, at the end of his emotional tether, rallies Arthur to speak with Alfred. Winant, meanwhile, forces Alfred to re-examine some long-held beliefs.
> 
> Time stamp: October and November of 1941.

September passed slowly, melting away into October. The air grew chillier. Summer was disappearing fast, leaving the homeless of London to struggle to find warm places to lay their heads at night. Alfred worked diligently with the embassy, though the work became monotonous. After the first visit, though, it seemed some kind of barrier had broken—Arthur visited frequently.   
  
Often they were short visits, with Arthur just walking around and with, when Alfred pressed him, loud claims that he was only there because the Prime Minister was curious and he was working as messenger, for the time being. Alfred didn’t understand why Churchill didn’t just send over a cable or something like that, but Winant never seemed that bothered by it, so Alfred figured it must be okay.   
  
Except whenever Arthur visited, it was distracting. They ended up talking, and the talking quickly became some kind of bickering, and once it became too much Arthur would stand up abruptly and retreat to the window, looking stupidly regal and other-wordly. Eventually the anger would blow over and they would rinse and repeat the same process.   
  
Today, it was a sunny day in October, though the air felt cool—it filtered into the embassy through the broken windows. Alfred felt the chill, even as he organized Winant’s files in the ambassador’s absence.   
  
Arthur waltzed in like he owned the place, removing his hat slowly and then tucking his hands behind his back, shoulders straight. His eyes found Alfred’s instantly, and he came to a quick stop inside the room, just looking at him.   
  
Alfred grinned. “Morning, Arthur.”   
  
“Good morning,” he said, quietly, looking around the room. He sighed, letting his hands drop to his sides, and he approached the desk Alfred worked behind. Alfred watched him approach, but didn’t move to straighten out from where he stooped, leaning over the desk with deliberate purpose. He was trying to his hardest to be productive. He was trying to hard. He pushed a few sheets of paper into one of the file folders.   
  
Arthur stood on the other side of the desk, not speaking.   
  
“What is it?” Alfred asked, eventually, looking up. Arthur cleared his throat, looked as if he was going to actually say something, and then suddenly thought better of it. He looked away, towards the window. He said nothing. Alfred sighed and straightened, patting down his hair awkwardly before shoving his hands into his pockets. “Um. Arthur?”   
  
“I do not wish to be here,” Arthur said, abruptly.   
  
Alfred frowned. “… Okay? So why are you?”  
  
Arthur was staring at the ground with rapt attention. “The Prime Minister has sent me.”   
  
“And?” Alfred asked. He waited for the denial, for Arthur’s adamant insistence that he did not care about anything Alfred, or the embassy, had to say.   
  
“And,” Arthur repeated, voice quiet, “He is at the end of his emotional tether. He wishes… for me to…”   
  
“To what?” Alfred asked.   
  
“To find some kind of satisfaction for his unease.”   
  
Alfred frowned. “What’s that have to do with me?”   
  
Arthur slammed his hands down onto the desk, letting it shake a little. “ _America_ ,” he said, sharply, “It has _everything_ to do with you.”   
  
There was a stilted silence following the brief explosion. Alfred felt his face tighten up, his jaw clench. He straightened his back, just a little—taller than Arthur, who stared up at him. Not angry. But certainly with the suggestion of anger lurking in his eyes.   
  
“Not this again…” Alfred began, cautiously.   
  
“Yes, this again,” Arthur said, abruptly. “I didn’t—want to do this. But he’s.” He looked away, brow furrowed. His jaw quivered as he clenched it tight. Alfred watched him swallow a few times. His anger seemed to defuse. He seemed to remember himself. “Well. I suppose it matters not what it is that I want. When he’s made a decision, that’s that.”   
  
“You know that I can’t… do anything, Arthur,” Alfred said. “You know that—my president, he won’t—”  
  
“I know,” Arthur said, tersely. “And I know you aren’t about to try to convince him otherwise, even if you felt you wanted to. Why should you? Your people are safe like this.” He added, quietly, “for now.” Then continued: “I told the Prime Minister that it was a hopeless pursuit, but he won’t… rest. He was certain that—well. Of course you’ve heard about the _Kearny_ and _Reuben James_.”   
  
“Yeah,” Alfred said, voice quiet. “I felt it.” He looked down at his hand. “It was just a little ping… just a little blip—there, and suddenly gone. But I felt it. I always feel it.”   
  
He looked down at his hands for a moment, feeling the dredging of his past reworking itself up through his mind—wars, so many wars—  
  
Arthur’s expression was one of sympathy. “Yes, of course. Of course.”   
  
Alfred nodded. Nodded and felt the bile rise in his throat—felt the shame of making such a large deal out of it, when he was facing down a man who had been bombed for months on end. And felt ashamed of the sudden moroseness of his feelings—his destroyer had been damaged in pursuit of protecting a British convoy. Two weeks later, the _Reuben James_ was sunk near Iceland—one hundred fifteen men dead. But Arthur was looking at him with sympathy—looking at him as if he had not lost thousands of his people already.   
  
“Um,” he said. “It’s probably not a big deal to you—I mean, you’ve lost a lot of civilians and soldiers, so—”  
  
“Death is death, Alfred,” Arthur said, not looking at him. “Just because I have lost more does not belittle your loss.”   
  
Alfred felt the heat in his face, felt the thud of his heart against his chest. He reminded himself to breathe normally.   
  
“Yeah,” Alfred said, with a sigh, looking down at the desk, unable to look at Arthur. “Anyway…”  
  
“The Prime Minister had hoped it’d be a rallying cry for your people, in any case,” Arthur muttered, not looking at Alfred.   
  
Alfred nodded. “There’s talk of it back home—some people wanting to avenge ‘em. But, mostly… it’s just—well. Apathy. Mostly.”   
  
He tapped his pen against the desk, dragging it over the crisp sheets of paper.   
  
“Just… apathy.”   
  
The word hung in the air. He fell into silence, and Arthur didn’t move to break it. So they stood there, lost in their own thoughts, their own pasts, their own futures—Arthur reached out a hand, hesitant, unsure, awkward, and touched at Alfred’s elbow. Alfred snapped his head up, and caught his eyes onto Arthur’s. Arthur nodded his head, just a little.   
  
“I’m not here to cajole you,” he said. “I know there’s nothing that you can do to bring your country into war—especially if you’re so far away from Washington. Especially if you—do not want for it yourself. It’s… I knew it would be useless to accost you for it, but my boss…”   
  
Alfred nodded, just a little. Arthur’s hand lingered, and Alfred found he liked the touch, found comfort in it—  
  
But Arthur pulled it away, and he stood, shifting a little awkwardly, hands fallen limply at his sides. He didn’t look at Alfred for a moment, and then his eyes flickered, tracing Alfred’s face.   
  
“And, despite that distance, I’m sure you have more important things to worry about,” Arthur continued. “Even if you could, you wouldn’t rally support for my country’s sake.”   
  
He didn’t say it with any real emotion, just a matter-of-fact clarification of what was set between them— _Alfred, like his country, does not care. Alfred, like his country, has no intention of getting involved. Alfred does not want war._ Simple. Alfred had never given Arthur a distinct reason to think otherwise—and their first meeting in London hung heavy in Alfred’s mind. No. Alfred had done nothing to make Arthur think that Alfred wanted to help him, politically.   
  
Alfred swallowed, thickly. “How do you feel?”  
  
Arthur nodded, absently. Welcomed the change in subject. “Healing.”   
  
“Really?” Alfred asked.  
  
“You don’t believe me?” Arthur asked, eyebrows rising. Then he laughed, sardonic, hardly there. “No, no. I’m healing. It’s Russia you should be worried about.”  
  
Alfred snorted—loudly. “Worry about Russia? Yeah, right.”   
  
There was a short silence, and then Arthur sighed. “I should take my leave. I’ll need to let the Prime Minister know that there’s nothing that can be done about US involvement in the war. I’ve spoken with the country himself, after all.”   
  
Arthur gave a curt nod, placing his hat back on his head and moving towards the door.   
  
“Arthur,” Alfred called out, before he could get too far away. The other man paused, looking back over towards him, the question in his eyes. Alfred licked his lips, and said, “Don’t give up, okay?”  
  
Arthur stared at him for a long moment, not moving, not even responding to Alfred’s words. But even from the distance, Alfred could see the flickering in Arthur’s eyes—that brief moment when all the walls fell down and there was _something_ there. But just as quickly as it was there, it was gone again, and Arthur tipped his chin up defiantly.   
  
“I hardly need for you to tell me that,” Arthur said with a sniff. “Good day, Alfred.”   
  
“Bye,” Alfred said as Arthur walked through the door and was gone.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Here’re your files,” Alfred said, handing the folders to Winant as the ambassador entered the room. “And, um, sir—”  
  
“Yes, Alfred?” the ambassador asked, voice warm. He seemed to be in a good mood, so Alfred took confidence in knowing just where Winant had gone—or, rather, just who he had gone to. It was the open secret that Alfred pretended not to know, even as he felt his cheeks heat up.   
  
“Your tie is crooked.”   
  
The ambassador paused, and then quickly adjusted the tie. “So it is. Thank you.”   
  
“Yeah,” Alfred said, wandering towards a chair and sitting down in it. He sighed, slumping a little. “Ambassador?”   
  
“Yes?” Winant asked, adjusting his desk to better suit his needs, searching in vain for a pen.   
  
“Why are my people being so apathetic?” Alfred asked, staring down at his feet. He glanced up to see the ambassador giving him a surprised look. Alfred cleared his throat. “Arthur visited—he. He got angry, though he tried to hide it. You know. He—he really wants me to join the war, to help him. His people, I mean. Help his people. Help the country. But I—can’t do anything.”   
  
The ambassador had fallen still, giving Alfred a long, hard look. His face was calm, but there was something in his eyes.   
  
Alfred ignored it. “I… well. I mean. He knows—he admitted, at least—that there’s nothing I can do. I can’t shape public opinion. I’m led by public opinion, just like the president is. Sure, some of my people want to help them, but…”  
  
“But, what?” the ambassador asked when Alfred trailed off and did not pick his thoughts back up again.  
  
Alfred shook his head. “I just don’t know what to do. I can’t—say that I hate him, anymore. But—but shouldn’t my people come first? Shouldn’t my loyalties lie only with them and what they want?”   
  
“You have to make that decision for yourself, Alfred,” the ambassador said, voice quiet and stilled.   
  
Alfred nodded, unconvinced and wishing there was some easy answer to it all. “Yeah…”  
  
He sighed, slumping a little in his chair.   
  
The ambassador continued to do his work, lips quirked downward into a frown.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Are you sure you’re healing okay?” Alfred asked.   
  
“I’m very certain,” Arthur replied, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows and leaning over his sink, scrubbing at his dirty dishes. Alfred could see the angry scars curling up his forearms. Arthur caught him staring, and shook his head. “It’s fine, lad. They look worse now, but in a few years only the very nasty ones will remain.”   
  
“I guess,” Alfred muttered, arms crossed and leaning his hip against the counter as he watched Arthur scrub, keeping his eyes down now. Alfred studied his face.   
  
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but wasn’t exactly comfortable, either. Alfred was sure that Arthur was aware of Alfred’s eyes on him, but he didn’t quite react to it other than a slight reddening of his ears.   
  
“You’re pretty tough, you know?” Alfred said, suddenly. He swallowed thickly after the words’ wake.  
  
“It’s not a matter of strength,” Arthur muttered. He scrubbed a little harder. “It’s a matter of necessity.”   
  
“You would say that,” Alfred said, softly, and, before he could quite realize, with a hint of affection. He cleared his throat abruptly. “It’s just, you know. Intense. Probably really inspiring, too, if your people ever knew how you hung on like this.”  
  
“I hold on because they hold on,” Arthur said, calm.   
  
Alfred nodded, absently. “Yeah.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
On his way to Arthur’s home, he ran into Arthur on his way to the embassy.   
  
They both stopped at the same time, a few feet away from each other. And at the exact same time, both looked away, embarrassed.   
  
“Um. Hi,” Alfred said.   
  
“Good morning,” Arthur said, quietly.   
  
“Did you have business at the embassy?” Alfred asked, tipping his head back over his shoulder.   
  
Arthur paused, shifted uncomfortably. Then shook his head. “I was on my way to see you.”  
  
“Huh?” Alfred asked, surprised by the sudden honesty.   
  
“Because my boss wishes for it,” Arthur corrected, quickly. “Of course. That’s the only reason.”  
  
“Oh,” Alfred said, scratching at the back of his neck.   
  
“But it seems I’ve caught you in a present engagement,” Arthur said, shifting so his head tipped forward in a way that had his hat hide his face from view. “Please excuse me.”  
  
“Oh, um,” Alfred said, stepping forward and grabbing Arthur’s elbow. “It’s not important. Don’t go.” Arthur gave him a shocked look. “Um,” Alfred said, blushing. “Because… yeah. I’ll—er. Come on.”   
  
He looked away, dropped his hand, and started walking towards the embassy. A few moments later, Arthur fell in step with him. Neither spoke the entire walk to the embassy, but once in the square, Alfred found his eyes drifting towards the house John Adams stayed in, before. His eyes always did. And he found, after a moment, that Arthur was looking, too, eyes distant. And then he turned his face away and walked into the embassy. Alfred followed him.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Things are getting heated,” Alfred said, reading over the cable from Washington—about Japan.   
  
Winant nodded. He was frowning. He looked more and more frazzled lately, more and more on the end of his emotional rope, too. Everyone was creeping towards some kind of end, but Alfred wasn’t sure for what. It was November, cold and chilled. The Germans were threatening to crush the Soviets at any given week, possibly even days—and, according to the president, Japan was preparing to make a move.   
  
“It’ll be the wrong war at the wrong time in the wrong ocean,” Alfred muttered to himself. “It’s been over a year. I don’t know how much longer the President can avoid Japan, like this.”   
  
Winant nodded again.   
  
“It is a looming crisis,” the ambassador said. “You’re deadlocked, Alfred.”   
  
“Deadlocked…” Alfred repeated, frowning.   
  
“The President is handcuffed, the Congress is irresolute, the people are divided and confused. There is nothing more that the President can say. He’s called his people to their battle stations—but there is no battle for them. So they do not respond.”   
  
“Apathy,” Alfred said, quietly.   
  
Shouldn’t he be more apathetic then? He wondered about it—and bit his lip.   
  
“Here’s a copy of what the Prime Minister said to the House of Commons,” Winant said, and handed it to Alfred.  
  
Alfred read aloud, “Nothing is more dangerous in wartime than to live in the temperamental atmosphere of Gallup polls or of feeling one’s pulse or taking one’s temperature… There is only one duty, only one safe course, and that is to be right and not to fear to do or say what you believe to be right.”   
  
Alfred felt the chill run down his spine. He handed the sheet of paper back to the ambassador, not looking to Winant. He sighed out.   
  
“Do you blame him, for such a view?” the ambassador asked.  
  
Alfred shook his head. “No. He’s right.”  
  
His hands curled into fists and he shoved them into his pockets, staring down at his feet and not speaking after that.   
  
His thoughts were roaring and he couldn’t fall still. He couldn’t stay silent. He couldn’t—  
  
And yet—  
  
He swallowed, thickly.   
  
He did his best—but he was making mistakes. He still had so many things he was unsure about, and yet—  
  
And yet—  
  
“Ambassador,” Alfred said, suddenly.   
  
“Yes?”   
  
Alfred swallowed thickly. He couldn’t waste his time thinking about things that were fair or unfair. His body wavered, and he turned to look at the ambassador.   
  
“Why am I not apathetic?”   
  
“Alfred?” the ambassador asked, confused by the question. He turned to look at the country in question, who stared back at the ambassador with a deep frown.   
  
“If the people are all mostly apathetic—shouldn’t I be…?” he asked, and cleared his throat. “Shouldn’t I not care at all?”   
  
There was a long silence, and Alfred watched Winant’s expression close off, his eyes widening just a little.   
  
“Are you honestly asking?” The ambassador sounded surprised.   
  
Alfred hesitated. Somehow, the ambassador could always find a way to either make Alfred feel like the greatest person in the world or, in this case, like a foolish little child asking stupid questions.   
  
“I hadn’t really thought about it up to this point—but. Back in Washington—the way I acted, when we met the president. You remember, right?”   
  
Winant nodded.  
  
Alfred blushed. “I got so emotional… I was. Really unhappy. But taking that and how I feel here—it doesn’t seem right. It’s off. I mean. I can’t shape public opinion—we know that. But… public opinion hasn’t changed, either, even though my feelings aren’t like they were before—But if public opinion hasn’t changed, my feelings shouldn’t have, either.”   
  
His body shook, just once, as he thought about it. His thoughts welled up.   
  
_Why do you care—_  
  
He closed his eyes, and sighed out. And when he opened them again, the ambassador was staring at him, long and undeterred. He didn’t look surprised—but perhaps something else. Alfred couldn’t place the expression. He wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to place the expression, either. His entire body felt cold—  
  
Winant was silent.   
  
Alfred shifted, fidgeting uncomfortably when the silence stretched on for a long minute. Alfred thought, at first, that Winant was collecting words, but as the silence stretched it became clearer and clearer that the ambassador was _only just staring at him_.   
  
“Um…”   
  
“Alfred.”  
  
Alfred cringed a little. His need to defend himself flared up, and he began to speak again, “I just—I don’t know. Being here… it’s making me think things I wouldn’t have otherwise. And I just—I don’t know. That shouldn’t be happening, right? I should be resolute in my feelings, because I’m supposed to feel the majority—right?”   
  
“Is it bad?” the ambassador asked instead of answering Alfred’s flurry of questions. “To feel these things?”   
  
“… I don’t know,” Alfred admitted after a short pause. He fidgeted more. “I see him—and I can remember what I thought I felt, before, months and months ago. I didn’t care. I wanted to go home—that’s all I cared about. But now I see him and I don’t want him to fall. I’m… glad that he’s so strong, glad that he can hold on—and I’m. I want to help him. And… I don’t know.”   
  
He shifted, visibly uncomfortable.   
  
“I shouldn’t feel this,” he said, decisively.   
  
“‘Shouldn’t’?” the ambassador mimicked. “Why not?”  
  
“Because… our countries are…” Alfred began, slowly, fidgeting more and more—he was a mess, he was falling apart. “I mean—a lot of my people hate England—”  
  
“And there are more still who love or care for it.”  
  
“But—” Alfred began.  
  
“Like myself,” the ambassador cut in.   
  
“But… the majority…”  
  
“Am I less of an American, if I do not follow the majority?” the ambassador asked. “Is hating England necessary to be part of ‘America’?”   
  
“I…”  
  
“Are only the ones that hate this country worthy of being part of your country?”   
  
Alfred pursed his lips shut in surprise. Then fidgeted more. “No…” he said slowly. “No, you’re American. You’re one of mine.”  
  
The ambassador gave him a small smile. Alfred felt his own lips twitch back, for just a moment.   
  
“But, even if they don’t have to hate England—I have to. I’m led by my people. And the people do not want war.” He inhaled, sharply. “So—there’s nothing I can do. This is all I can do. But it’s… it’s damn hard to deal with, damn hard to deal with everything here and remember to separate myself, remember that this—this isn’t my country and it isn’t my fight.”   
  
He fell into silence, and looked down at his feet.   
  
And when he looked up again, the ambassador was frowning at him and, Alfred realized, for the first time—looking annoyed. Alfred shifted, taken aback, blinking a few times at Winant’s expression as the ambassador let out a long sigh and straightened his back just a little. Alfred watched as the ambassador walked away from his desk, moving around the room. He stood at the window, shifted, and turned to look towards Alfred, studying his expression.   
  
“Is that truly how you feel?” the ambassador asked.   
  
“I…” Alfred began, but trailed off.   
  
“I look out over London,” the ambassador said, voice deceptively causal, “and I feel no hatred. I look out over London, and I think that all I want is a way to make the war end—all I think about is how I can help England and the British people.”   
  
He fell into silence.   
  
Alfred shifted his eyes away. “Yeah, but…”  
  
“But what, Alfred?” the ambassador asked, when Alfred did not start speaking again. “ _What?_ ”  
  
 _It’s only a matter of time before—_  
  
Alfred’s eyes widened as he stared at the floor, face turning red.   
  
_Why do you care—_  
  
Alfred shrugged. “Even if I feel this way—it doesn’t matter. Because public opinion—”  
  
“When are you going to understand what I am trying to tell you? What I’ve been trying to tell you for months now?” Winant interrupted.   
  
Alfred looked up in surprise by the interruption, by the sheer force of Winant’s words. “Sir?”   
  
The ambassador paused, and then moved closer, reaching out a hand and touching Alfred’s chest, just above his heart, a single finger tap. “You are _you._. These feelings you have inside yourself? They aren’t just the people—they are _you._ ”  
  
Alfred froze up, eyes wide. “I—”  
  
“Every time you close your eyes, what you see and feel is your own. When you close your eyes now, what is it that you see?”   
  
Alfred didn’t answer, eyes widening further. “Amba—”  
  
“What do you see?”   
  
Alfred clenched his eyes shut and there was a stilted silence. He couldn’t see anything—his heart was pounding too quickly for him to concentrate. He blinked his eyes open and found the ambassador was still frowning at him, staring at him—begging him to understand.   
  
“Ambassador…” Alfred began.   
  
“To them—to your people, those people you say form you completely until there is nothing of your own inside yourself—to them, England is just a country. Not a person. To them, the United Kingdom is just a block of islands. They have no face to put to the name. But you. You, Alfred, don’t you see—?”  
  
Alfred swallowed thickly, shaking his head. “I don’t—”  
  
“To them, what lies in the past is just history. Facts and events. But for you, Alfred—America—they are _memories._ ”   
  
The word rang out, long and painful. It wrenched in Alfred’s gut and Alfred took a step back, shaking his head.   
  
“Your hands are shaking right now because of emotions, Alfred,” the ambassador said, calmly, and Alfred looked down to see that, sure enough, his hands were shaking. He clenched them together. The ambassador continued, “They’re shaking because of emotions, not because of Supreme Court rulings or the Constitution!”   
  
It was the first time that Alfred had seen Winant legitimately angry, and he wasn’t sure what to do, or what to say. His words shook Alfred straight down into the core.   
  
“Would you truly not cry if England were to fall?” Winant asked, and Alfred’s eyes widened. He stared at Winant, eyes wide, unable to speak or move. He could only stare as the ambassador spoke. “If England were to fall tomorrow, half of your people wouldn’t bat an eyelash. A few more would celebrate. But what about you? What would you do if _Arthur_ were to disappear?”  
  
Alfred stared at him, the chill running down his spine and filling his entire body with ice. “I…”  
  
 _It’s only a matter of time before—_   
  
“It doesn’t matter what your people feel—what matters is how _you_ feel. So search your heart, and tell me, Alfred. What do you feel?”  
  
Alfred stared at him, eyes wide.   
  
“I think you already know it isn’t apathy,” Winant said. Alfred stared to shake his head but the ambassador stepped even closer, frowning deeply. When he spoke, though, his voice was softer, gentler, with just a bit more sympathy than before: “Be honest with yourself, Alfred.”   
  
Alfred bit his lip, his heart pounding, his hands shaking. But he couldn’t calm down, he couldn’t—  
  
His mind was racing, the memories were flooding. Everything of the past—the last few months, years and years ago.   
  
All those years he’d left behind—  
  
All those years he wanted to forget—  
  
The moments that had already passed recently, too. The blood on the floors, the dust in the corners. The way Arthur stared up at him with hooded, murky eyes as he focused on his own courage, as he focused on holding on until the very end. The way his lips quirked up into a dismissive, sardonic smile—  
  
The way he held on, no matter what. The way he glared at him, berated him, dismissed him. The way he blinked up at Alfred from the bathtub as Alfred cleaned his wounds. The way he shuddered on the train on the way to Bristol. The way his eyes found their way back towards London, even in the countryside.   
  
The way he wove his way through the rubble and cried as if he had lost everything and would still keep holding on—  
  
Alfred’s heard thundered. His body shook, chilled to the core.   
  
_Why do you care—_  
  
His heart, his heart, his heart—it was pounding loud in his ears—  
  
“Alfred.”   
  
“I don’t—”  
  
“ _Alfred._ ”   
  
“ _I don’t know how I feel, okay?_ ” Alfred shouted, suddenly. His body was shaking and he advanced on the ambassador, though the man did not back down. “I have been trying to understand,” Alfred continued, volume raising and not caring, “I have tried to understand this since before you were even _born_ so don’t—”  
  
The words took him by surprise, but he knew them to be true. He thought back on Arthur’s words—  
  
 _I tried so hard to hate you—I wanted nothing more than to hate you—_  
  
For Alfred, too. He understood. He’d tried so hard, he’s spent decades—centuries—wanting to hate him, wanting nothing more than to see him disappear from his sight and mind, wanting nothing more than to be his own, to be without _England._ He understood—  
  
He understood that it had always been impossible.   
  
Alfred’s voice hitched as he spoke, “Don’t stand there and treat me like a child—I’m. I’ve been trying to understand since the moment I broke away from him—before I ever broke away from him. I’m sick and tired of everyone treating me like I’m a foolish child! I’m—I don’t _know_ what I feel.”   
  
Everything was falling apart—everything he’d thought he’d always known was wrong. He never hated him. He was never indifferent to him.   
  
He’d always—  
  
“I…”  
  
His voice trailed off into silence and he looked away. He pulled away, storming across the room. But he couldn’t find the strength to throw the door open and leave. His hand lingered on the doorknob. He stayed quiet, his body shaking. And he sighed out, slumping a little. He pressed his forehead against the door, body shaking.   
  
If he thought about it—if he lingered on it—  
  
 _Why do you care—_  
  
It was too much, though. He didn’t want to know, he didn’t want to understand. It was better left unknown. It was better left buried deep inside him. If he tried to pull it up, if he tried to understand it—  
  
If he tried—  
  
If he understood—  
  
If he was honest to himself—no. No, no, no. No, he couldn’t be honest. He couldn’t be honest. It was too much, it would be too much. It was better left behind. It was better forgotten. It was better if he never understood.   
  
But if he was honest—  
  
 _It’s only a matter of time—_  
  
 _He didn’t want him to fall—_  
  
Since when had it changed? Since when had he been unable to say, with certainty, what he felt about Arthur? Since when had he become so unsure about his feelings, so uncertain that he would pretend it didn’t exist?   
  
Since when did it become this difficult?   
  
And yet—it couldn’t be anything. It was nothing. There wasn’t affection, there wasn’t caring—there wasn’t—  
  
Alfred refused to think further on it.   
  
Alfred pressed his forehead against the door, hand curled around the doorknob. Ready to fly—ready to disappear—  
  
“This isn’t me wanting to help England. This is me—I want to help _Arthur._ I… I care about him,” he told the door quietly. He knew the ambassador was listening. “But I also don’t. I want to hate him and at the same time I know that I can’t—I know that I never really could. But… but I don’t—I can’t—”  
  
Alfred inhaled sharply.  
  
 _Why do you care—_  
  
“He’s using me. I’m using him. We’re using each other—that’s not affection, that isn’t emotion. That’s only politics.”   
  
And before he could let Winant say anything, he threw the door open and ran.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He hadn’t intended to go to Arthur’s, and yet, there he was—  
  
He pushed the door open and walked in. His heart was pounding—  
  
And the moment he saw Arthur, it thundered even louder. His face heated up. His body was taut, his body was singing—get away, get away, get away—  
  
Arthur was staring at him, and there obviously must have been something in his eyes because Arthur was setting down his book and approaching him, expression concerned—  
  
Why was he concerned—  
  
“I’m going home,” Alfred told him, abruptly. Arthur froze in his tracks, eyes widening. It was in that split second that Alfred saw something in Arthur’s eyes, and felt the mimicry in his own, felt a small spark of bitterness.   
  
Arthur breathed out, looking away, expression crumbling—bitterness. Yes, Alfred understood, understood that frustration—leave, leave, leave, go back to the place untouched by bombs, with thriving economy, when a day without meat was considered rationing—  
  
But Alfred watched as Arthur pushed those thoughts away, watched as Arthur’s expression cleared and he nodded his head, absently.   
  
“Of course,” he said, quietly. He swallowed. “Have… a safe trip.”  
  
Alfred bit his lip and stepped forward. “Arthur, I…”   
  
Arthur looked up as Alfred approached him, reached out a hand and grasped at Arthur’s elbow. Arthur did not stiffen up under the touch—in fact—  
  
In fact it was the opposite. Alfred felt Arthur relax beneath his touch, watched the way Arthur stared up at him, expression concerned but honest. Looking at only him. Arthur felt his throat go dry. Felt his heart shrivel and thunder and pulse and refuse to stay quiet—it was too much—  
  
It was too much—  
  
“Arthur, I…”   
  
But what did he want to say? There was nothing to say. Nothing. It was all too late. He’d pulled it all back up, he faced everything he never wished to know, never wished to understand.   
  
Alfred shifted, pressed forward, and pulled Arthur into a hug.   
  
Arthur made a soft sound of surprise. “Alfred—”  
  
“When you told me that you hold on because your people hold on—did you mean that?”   
  
“Of course,” Arthur said, quietly, voice confused. He didn’t hug Alfred back, but he didn’t pull away from the hesitant hold, either.   
  
“But—do you hold on… for any other reason? I mean,” he said, quickly, staring at the wall with wide eyes, holding himself to Arthur tightly. “I mean, do you hold on because you want to, too? Or is it just because of your people?”   
  
“I don’t know what you mean,” Arthur said.   
  
“Do you consider yourself your own person? Or are you just the accumulation of your own people? That’s what I’m asking, Arthur.”   
  
Arthur was quiet.   
  
“Are you your own person?”   
  
“Alfred,” Arthur said, quietly. “Of course I am.”  
  
Alfred froze up, eyes widening further.   
  
Arthur shifted, pulling away, pushing very lightly at Alfred’s chest to get him to pull back. His hands lingered—Alfred could feel them pressed against his chest, and could Arthur feel his hammering heart?—and he stared up at Alfred, expression unsure.   
  
“You…”  
  
“Yes,” Arthur said. “It’s impossible for me to represent all of my people—there are too many varying thoughts. They are part of me, and I am part of them, yes. I am shaped by them. But that’s all, Alfred. There are things that I think and feel that aren’t because of them. And my thinking or feeling those things doesn’t mean anything to them.”   
  
Alfred couldn’t speak. He just stared at Arthur wordlessly. His throat felt too dry, felt too closed off. Of course that was Arthur’s response—  
  
He should have known, he should have understood—  
  
How did he go so long without realizing—  
  
Arthur must have seen it in his face. He hesitated, his entire body tensing up. And then Alfred watched, slowly, as Arthur lifted his hand and touched Alfred’s cheek. It was a soft touch, and Alfred found that he didn’t want Arthur to draw his hand back.   
  
“Alfred,” Arthur said, quietly. He hesitated, blinking a few times. “My dear lad, what is it? What’s wrong?”   
  
And, finally, for the first time since arriving, Alfred felt his heart stop. Just for one moment, a slight hitch in his chest, a hitch in his breath. It was just a slight hitch, and then it started all over again. He felt warm all over, felt safe—felt as if he never wanted to move. Never wanted to leave. He stared at Arthur. The hand didn’t move, didn’t flinch.   
  
And before he could quite realize what he was doing, Alfred found that he was leaning, ever so slightly, into the touch.   
  
And at the exact moment that he did this, they both seemed to remember themselves because Alfred snapped his head back and Arthur snapped his hand back. And they both looked away from each other.   
  
“It’s—um. Japan,” Alfred said. “It’s—things are happening. I think that… I think that the president would call me back soon, anyway. So I think that, before things get too heavy, I’ll go back there. And. Um.”   
  
“Yes, of course,” Arthur said quietly, looking down at his rug. His face was red.  
  
Alfred knew his face was red, too. He swallowed thickly. “So… yeah.”   
  
Arthur nodded.   
  
Alfred clenched his eyes shut. “I—I’m leaving.”   
  
“Yes,” Arthur agreed. “Yes, of course. Have a safe trip, Alfred.”   
  
He could hear it, hear it in his voice—knew it was true of his own voice, too—  
  
 _I’ll miss you._  
  
But it shouldn’t have been that way, it couldn’t have been that way.   
  
Alfred pulled back, suddenly, stepping back. Arthur was staring after him, obviously concerned—  
  
But it was too late—  
  
He wanted to apologize, but he couldn’t know why he wanted it, and for what he’d be apologizing, didn’t want to know why—  
  
So he just turned his back and walked away.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He felt like he was betraying him. Felt like he was abandoning him. To him, it felt like the time was much later, that the ticking clock was clicking ever downward and he was leaving when Arthur needed him most—  
  
But there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t do anything. He was only a constant reminder of his country’s stubbornness. And that was all. He couldn’t be any help to Arthur—his presence could bring no comfort, only a bitter reminder of all the things his country wasn’t doing for Arthur. It’d be better, in the end, if they were separated, if the ocean stretched out between them.  
  
He touched down to his own soil. He touched down and felt wayward, a ship without an anchor.   
  
It was too normal—  
  
The lack of concern about the fighting and dying on the other side of the ocean, the apparent refusal to acknowledge that Americans had stakes in the outcome of the war—  
  
Alfred clenched his eyes shut as he walked from the airport. “Of _course_ I’d cry if he disappeared, ambassador. How could I not cry?” He kept walking, his breathing ragged. “It’s okay to admit to myself, cause it’s only me. I don’t want him to die. I don’t want him to be hurt anymore. I want to help him. I want to be—to me, he’s—”   
  
He walked against the brisk chill of late November. His eyes stung with the cold wind pushing against his face, crisping his cheeks and ears and nose to a burning pink.   
  
He moved, he understood—  
  
He understood, and could not pretend that he didn’t—couldn’t hide anymore, didn’t want to hide—  
  
He cared. He cared more than he thought he ever could—and it was because of himself, not because of his people.  
  
The way he felt for Arthur—  
  
He clenched his eyes shut, felt his heart stab against his chest. His breathing was a cool mist in the brisk air.   
  
“Why can’t I _help_ him when he needs me?”   
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**  
  
\- In early November 1941, Ed Murrow dashed off a quick note to Gil Winant from a hotel room in Bristol, just before boarding a plane for America. “Leaving this country at this time is not easy,” Murrow wrote. “It is, in fact, more difficult than I had expected.” As he headed home for a three-month lecture tour, he felt as if he were abandoning England at an especially fateful time. “I am convinced that the hour is much later,” he told another friend, “than most people at home appreciate.”   
  
\- Indeed the time was very late for England. The Germans were advancing on Moscow and it seemed fated that they would crush the soviets in weeks, if not days. The British desperately provided aid to the Red Army, and were thus stalled in the Middle East and suffering losses there. And, additionally, the Japanese were preparing to sweep through Southeast Asia. The Japanese military already swept through Indochina three months before and taken army bases from Thailand—and were an ever-looming threat for the British and Dutch possessions in the Far East (Malaya, Burman, Singapore, Hong Kong, and the Dutch East Indies, to name a few). Churchill knew that should the Japanese attack, the UK would need to declare war—something that would be utterly impossible with the British supplies militarily. They’d be sitting ducks. During the Atlantic Charter, Churchill tried to get Roosevelt to agree to going to war in the Pacific, should the need arise—without the US, the UK would be unable to do anything.   
  
\- Roosevelt, meanwhile, was doing his best to, as he put it, “baby the Japs along.” He was focused on the Battle of the Atlantic and the war in Russia, and felt that any battles in the Pacific would be the wrong war in the wrong ocean at the wrong time (said by Alfred in the fic). That view was reinforced by General George Marshall and Admiral Harold Stark, who repeatedly warned Roosevelt that the US was not ready to fight and that a two-front war would be disastrous. When Japan seized Indochina, Roosevelt retaliated economically, hoping that the restrictions imposed by the US on Japan would restrain Japan without forcing it into war with them. (This could possibly be one of the stupidest decisions of his presidency—as it only enraged Japan and ended up being one of the main driving points behind the attack on Pearl Harbor.)   
  
\- Churchill agonized over the way Roosevelt tip-toed towards confrontation and then recoiled. One October 16, the destroyer _Kearny_ was badly damaged by German torpedoes when it raced to the rescue of a convoy under attack. Two weeks later, another destroyer, the _Reuben James_ , was sunk near Iceland, killing 115 members of its crew. But, instead of a popular outcry in the US, demanding that Roosevelt avenge “our boys,” the predominant reaction seemed to be one of apathy.   
  
\- “In this looming crisis, the US seems deadlocked—its President handcuffed, its Congress irresolute, its people divided and confused,” wrote James MacGregor Burns, a Roosevelt biographer. “Now—by early November 1941—there seemed to be nothing more [FDR] could say. There seemed to be little more he could do. He had called his people to their battle stations—but there was no battle.” (Winant says this in the fic.)   
  
\- Near the end of his emotional tether, Churchill railed to his subordinates about the US paralysis and Roosevelt’s unwillingness to do anything about it. In a speech to the House of Commons, he declared: “Nothing is more dangerous in wartime than to live in the temperamental atmosphere of Gallup polls or of feeling one’s pulse or taking one’s temperature… There is only one duty, only one safe course, and that is to be right and not to fear to do or say what you believe to be right.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The United States of America enters the war.
> 
> Time stamp: December of 1941.

  
Early December was cold. It was only a week in, and Alfred was already wishing for spring again—already longing for the months to pass, for this strange monotony he had fallen into to pass. He felt as if he had no agency. And the winter season was not helping. He’d always hated winter. He’d always hated December, save for maybe a few days like Christmas or New Years. It was cold, it was chilly, and, more importantly, everyone was most certainly _not_ calm. Above everything else, December meant that most things were dead.   
  
He wondered what Arthur was doing—  
  
And he quickly shook his head, telling himself to think on other things. The White House was bustling around, humming with life and desperate movement. It most certainly wasn’t dead inside the walls—quite the opposite. Alfred kept close to the President, who was all coiled energy. His face was terse and anyone who passed him or didn’t speak quickly enough were risking being snapped at by the president. The President would have liked to pace around the room, but, instead, he stayed seated at his chair, frowning. He couldn’t afford his jerky movements—though Alfred lingered by to support him, should the urge arise, though.   
  
“Sir,” an aide said as he pulled himself into the room through the throng of bustling cabinet members, aides, and secretaries. “The army code-breakers—they’ve cracked the code!”   
  
The president looked up sharply and the room fell into silence for half a second. “What is it? What does it say?”   
  
The aide scrambled to the president’s desk, and showed him the piece of paper, with the code the Japanese government had sent to the Japanese embassy in Washington earlier that day. There was a chilled silence as the president read the dispatch. His eyes scanned the page, and with every passing moment, his face tensed up further. Alfred forgot to breathe beside him.   
  
Then, the president slowly set the paper down, stared off towards the aide and then towards Alfred. Then, perhaps deciding he did not wish to look on anyone, he turned his head and stared out the window of his office. He stayed silent, for a long moment.  
  
Then, with a slight folding of his hands, he said, voice deadly serious: “This means war.”   
  
Something snapped inside Alfred’s chest. “Sir—”  
  
“The Japanese are on the move,” the president said curtly as he caught Alfred’s eye, turning from the window and staring at the country in question. Alfred was mute, unable to speak. The president sighed. He eyed the aide and said, abruptly, “You’re dismissed.”  
  
The aide scrambled away.  
  
The president looked around the room, and the entire room was at attention—waiting for his response.  
  
He sighed, folding his hands together. “You’re all dismissed.”  
  
There was a short pause, and then everyone seemed to move at once, moving towards the door. Alfred started to follow.   
  
“You stay here, Alfred,” the president said, softly.   
  
Alfred froze. Roosevelt waited, silently, as the room emptied until Alfred was alone with the president. The president waited until he heard the click of the door before turning his attention back towards his country.   
  
“This means war, Alfred.”   
  
Alfred nodded his head, hands clenched at his sides. Something was humming through him, and he was shaking. But he couldn’t stop. He didn’t allow himself to think. He kept his eyes on the president.   
  
The president closed his eyes, and sighed out. “An attack is expected at any moment—but where?”   
  
He spoke rhetorically, and Alfred had no intention of answering the question. But the silence stretched on. Alfred could see the president thinking, deeply. Alfred hesitated, and then approached the president’s desk. He reached out a hand, slowly, and touched the president’s shoulder. Roosevelt was not an affectionate man, but Alfred never doubted the man’s devotion, never doubted that he cared—he touched the president’s shoulder, and Roosevelt did not shrug him away.   
  
The president said, quietly, “The warships were seen steaming south, but no one knows their exact destination. All the intelligence points to Malaysia, Singapore, or the Dutch East Indies.”   
  
Alfred nodded his head.   
  
“Read the message for yourself,” the president said, shifting his hand and grabbing the piece of paper. He held it towards Alfred. “It’s belligerent. This is war. Europe will have no choice. I sent one last appeal to the emperor for peace—but, no reply. Then, this message is sent to the embassy. So that’s how it is. The Japanese have made their decision.”   
  
Alfred, hand shaking, took the piece of paper and read it over. Once he’d read the words, he let the paper fall to the desk. He bit his lip, and nodded his head.   
  
“Yeah…” he said, quietly, his voice hitched, his entire body humming and shaking. “This is war…”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Just in case, I want you to stay nearby,” the president said, later. “Stay in the White House. Don’t go home.”  
  
Alfred nodded, without hesitation. “Yes, sir.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
All the flowers in the garden were dead. It was to be expected—it was December, after all. Alfred curled into his jacket, frowning. He curled into himself, trying to get warm. He walked a little more, boots crunching on the snow-covered, frozen ground. He breathed out, his breath a milky cloud. The First Lady walked beside him, also looking very chilled herself. She pulled her hat down over her ears, and then wrapped an arm around Alfred’s when he offered it to her. They walked in silence for a moment, arm-in-arm.   
  
Alfred stared up at the sky, frowning.   
  
The First Lady must have sensed his unease because she asked, “Do you believe there will be war with Japan?”   
  
Alfred continued to stare up at the sky. Then he nodded. “Yes.”   
  
He saw her nod her head out of the corner of his eye. He lowered his eyes from the sky, focusing instead on the ground, navigating through the frozen gardens to make sure the two of them didn’t fall and hurt themselves.   
  
“It’s the wrong war in the wrong ocean, though,” Alfred muttered. “It was supposed to be war in the Atlantic.”   
  
The First Lady paused in her step, and Alfred paused, in turn, looking down at her. She looked up at him.   
  
“If Japan declares war on you, the British shall declare war on it within the hour.”   
  
Alfred felt his heart leap into his throat—and knew it was true, did not doubt it for a moment. He nodded his head. “I know,” he said, quietly. He looked away. “I know that… Churchill’s stated as much, publically.”   
  
“If Japan declares war on Britain, though—will we declare war on Japan in turn?” the First Lady asked.  
  
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Alfred said with a sigh—a long, suffering sigh. His hands were tied. “But… Congress…”   
  
The First Lady nodded, and was silent. Alfred began to walk again, leading her around the garden. That was the question, though—what would happen now? What would become of himself? What will become of Arthur? A Japanese attack on British territory in Asia would race England into a two-front war, with no lifeline from his country, with no ability to support himself.  
  
“I probably won’t be able to return again,” Alfred said, quietly, mostly to himself.   
  
“Hm?” the First Lady asked, hearing his words, of course.   
  
“To Arthur,” Alfred said, tensely, but quiet. He lowered his eyes. “To England. I probably won’t be able to return again—if there’s war. If we declare war on Japan, the president will want me here—at home. If England declares war on Japan alone, I won’t be welcomed in England.”   
  
His feet crunched in the snow.   
  
“Alfred…” the First Lady said, but otherwise didn’t speak.  
  
Alfred clenched his eyes shut, and then tipped his head back, looking up at the dusty colors of the sky, expression crumbling—he wanted to go back. He wanted to go back so desperately.   
  
_Why do you care—_  
  
All he wanted was—  
  
He felt far too cold, and not because of the winter winds.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
December seventh dawned unseasonably warm—balmy. Alfred hadn’t slept at all the night before. He was up with the sunrise, and wandered through the halls of the White House. He wandered for a few hours, outside in the gardens, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather and looking out past the iron gates, at the people passing by, unaware of the hustle and bustle within the White House, within the confines of governmental process. He spent far too long looking out over his people—so distant, so uninvolved.   
  
He swallowed thickly, and it lodged in his throat. The things he would never say wavered against his throat, but he refused to indulge it. His hands fisted at his sides, and he turned his face away and spent the rest of the morning in the gardens, not daring to look away from the dead plants.   
  
At ten in the morning, he found the president, bent over his desk, working tirelessly, his face contorted as he furiously scribbled across endless sheets of paper. Aides ran in and out of the room. Alfred approached him. He looked like he hadn’t slept well, either.   
  
“Mr. President—”  
  
The president held out a piece of paper, wordlessly.   
  
Alfred took it, hesitant.   
  
“‘Diplomatic relations with the US are to be broken off’,” the president said, nodding towards the piece of paper. “We just decoded it about an hour ago. Another message arrived—”   
  
He held up another piece of paper.   
  
“It instructs the Japanese embassy to deliver the main message to the Americans at one.”  
  
The blood drained from Alfred’s face. He was seized, suddenly, with such an intense chill that he could hardly move, could hardly react to the paper in his hand. He handed it back to the president, mute and jerky in his movements. The president did not press him to speak. Alfred stood, the only still person in the entire room.  
  
“Alfred,” the president said, after a few moments. “I suggest you get somewhere safe. I will have the doctors at—”  
  
“No,” Alfred said softly. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”  
  
“Alfred—” the president began.  
  
Alfred ignored him, turning and walking towards the door.   
  
“ _America_ ,” the president shouted after him, but Alfred did not listen. He closed the door behind him.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
His hands were shaking. He couldn’t quite manage to open his pack of cigarettes. His entire body was quaking—from fear, he realized. Fear. He hadn’t felt it, not truly, in a long time. It’d been so long, far too long—so long since he’d ever felt uncertain like this, since he’d ever felt the dread pooling in his stomach and keeping him from moving. The expectation was the worst—he knew it could be coming at any moment. But he couldn’t know. He didn’t know. He couldn’t be prepared.  
  
His entire body felt cold. His hands were shaking, but the rest of his body was deathly still, deathly cold. He stared down at his hands. He managed to get the pack of cigarettes open, but his hands were useless with actually retrieving a cigarette. It was just as well—he wouldn’t have been able to manage lighting it. It was just as well—he couldn’t look at the cigarettes anymore without remembering things he couldn’t afford to remember—  
  
The touch of his fingers as he took the package from him, soft green eyes the color of sea-glass, that hesitant smile when he thanked him—  
  
Alfred clenched his eyes shut, feeling the fear spike in his gut—  
  
The way the smoke curled around his face, framed those eyes that stared either at him, or back towards his home—  
  
Alfred stood up abruptly, dropping the cigarettes.   
  
He wandered around his room—the guest bedroom he was staying in at the White House. He wanted to be far away. He wanted to be home, alone—his home, not this home. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to get away, from the government, from the war, from everything. He closed his eyes, and breathed out, sharply. There was no way that he’d be able to get out of the president’s house. He could force his way out, but it’d cause unnecessary commotion. So he would stay.   
  
His hands were shaking. He tried to still them. He couldn’t.   
  
“It’s okay,” he said, quietly, but his words were hollow and he knew he would never be able to convince himself.   
  
He breathed out.  
  
He breathed in.  
  
And out again.  
  
“It’s okay,” he said, desperately, his voice cracking and breaking.   
  
He pressed the butt of his palms into his eyes, clenching his eyes shut and shaking. He tried to focus on his breathing, but the sound of his rattling breath in the empty, silent room only reminded him of lack of air, only reminded him of all those people who had stopped breathing, only reminded him of situations where you couldn’t even hear the sound of breathing—  
  
“It’s okay!” he shouted, desperately, dropping his hands and widening his eyes. His glasses were smudged, his vision was blurring. “It’s okay, it’s okay…”  
  
Maybe if he repeated it a little more, it would be true—  
  
Maybe if—  
  
  
\---  
  
  
He felt it before any word made it to the White House.   
  
The bombs fell in Hawaii, and Alfred collapsed.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
It burned.   
  
He understood, then, in the back of his mind—all those people, all those countries—everyone who had witnessed the bombs repeatedly, who had been thrown down to the ground at the mercy of the enemy without any respite. He understood—at least somewhat—  
  
He couldn’t let the world fall—  
  
He felt the tears stinging his eyes, and tried to resist it. Arthur had endured worst in one night alone, and he’d stood by himself for months and months, the sole light in the world.   
  
Arthur—  
  
He hoped Arthur wouldn’t hold it against him, if he were to cry here. He imagined that, maybe angry, maybe annoyed, but Arthur would at least be quiet as Alfred wept—  
  
And so he did, weeping as he curled into himself, his entire body burning with a pain he never expected would hurt so badly. He gritted his teeth, tears stinging his eye, and endured it—felt as if his chest was about to shatter, felt as if something were stabbing repeatedly into his back and ripping him apart.   
  
He understood—  
  
  
\---  
  
  
He didn’t know when he passed out, only realized that one moment, it was excruciating pain and the next, he was in a bed—no longer on the floor. He felt the bandages. But the thud of pain still lingered through his entire body. He couldn’t move.   
  
“He may be in shock for a while,” one voice, the president’s physician possibly, said, quietly, somewhere to Alfred’s left as Alfred blinked his eyes open and stared at the ceiling.   
  
“I want a full report when he wakes up,” another voice said—the president himself.   
  
Alfred wanted to tell them that he was already awake, but someone opened the door—  
  
“Sir,” a small voice said. “Sir, Ambassador Winant is on the phone for you.”  
  
Alfred closed his eyes, his heart thudding suddenly. Winant, still in England—Arthur—  
  
“Give it here,” the president ordered, and heard footsteps as he approached the phone in the corner. “Wire it to me directly. Come on. Get moving.”  
  
There was the thud of footsteps and the shut of a door. There was silence for a few minutes, and then Alfred heard the president pick up the phone and begin to speak. “Ambassador—”  
  
The president was close enough, and the words loud enough, that he could hear the conversation—  
  
“And I shall talk to him, too!” he heard Churchill declare in the background, so distant, so many miles away now.   
  
“Mr. President, what’s this about Japan?” the ambassador asked, polite over the assertion of the Prime Minister.   
  
“They’ve attacked us at Pearl Harbor,” the president said, voice taut. “We are all in the same boat now.”   
  
There was a moment—where they couldn’t hide the euphoric feelings on the other end of the ocean. He heard Churchill’s intake of breath—almost a laugh—and the lightness of his feet as he moved away. The telephone crackled.   
  
“We have won the war,” he heard Churchill calling out to someone, somewhere in Chequers, perhaps, “England will live!”   
  
The president said his goodbyes to the ambassador and hung up the phone, abruptly. Alfred opened his eyes, and found the phone and the president beside him, to his right. He stared down at Alfred, face grim.   
  
“Mr. President,” Alfred said, quietly, and his throat hurt, rubbed raw from his shouts before.   
  
“How do you feel?” the president asked, expression grim and his voice tight to match the look.   
  
Alfred nodded his head. “Hey, this is nothing. Nothing compared to what the Europeans have to put up with.”   
  
But when he tried to sit up, it ached too much. He clenched his eyes shut and clenched his jaw. He hissed out slowly, and the doctor was there to keep Alfred in bed. Alfred opened his eyes again and frowned. His body hummed with pain. He’d never been bombed before—he’d never felt anything like this before.   
  
“You shouldn’t move, Mr. Jones,” the doctor said, quietly. “You’re in shock. You’re injured. It’d be best if you didn’t move right away.”  
  
“I told you,” Alfred said, ashamed that he felt this pain, ashamed that he’d cried over this pain, when so many others had experienced so much worse, “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”  
  
“Listen to him, Alfred,” the president commanded.   
  
Alfred lowered his eyes, face flushed with shame. “Yes, sir.”   
  
The door opened and Alfred turned his head—saw the First Lady come in. His face softened, just a little, upon seeing her. She approached him, going to the president’s side, her eyes on Alfred.   
  
“Oh,” was all she managed to say. She smiled at him, reached out a hand, and touched his cheek—comforting, gentle, just barely a touch. It didn’t hurt. She touched it, just for a moment, and withdrew it.   
  
Alfred just smiled at her, feeling his heart throb—too much sympathy in this room, too much concern. It was nothing, it was nothing, it was nothing—nothing like what he saw—  
  
He closed his eyes. If the Prime Minister knew about the attack, undoubtedly Arthur would know, too. Arthur—  
  
“I’ve told the Murrows to come to dinner, regardless,” the First Lady was telling her husband. “That we want them to come.”  
  
“And we do,” the president said. “Though I doubt I’ll make it to dinner this day.”   
  
The two continued to speak, but with Alfred’s eyes closed, his thoughts began to drift, and his consciousness along with it.   
  
Arthur—  
  
He fell again to sleep.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
By dinnertime, Alfred, stubbornly, left his bed. The visitors to his bedside had mostly fizzled out. The President had taken great pains to hide him away from anyone who did not know who he truly was—a collapsed, injured man would only cause more unease and havoc in an already chaotic White House. The nurses instructed to look after him had slipped out to let him sleep, and, so, he’d swung his legs out of the bed and stood up. He stumbled, just a little, and had to use the wall for a moment.   
  
His face burned with shame. It was just one bombing, just one day, and not even on the mainland—it shouldn’t have affected him as much as it had. But it had. His knees buckled. His body burned with pain. He’d never been bombed before, he’d never felt this—  
  
Did it always feel like this? Had Arthur felt this during the entire course of the war?   
  
His fist curled against the wall, and he kept moving. He refused to stop.   
  
He passed a mirror, and paused, studying his expression. He recognized that look. It was one he’d grown well-acquainted with—saw it in all their eyes, back in England. Saw it most of all in Arthur’s eyes—that hard, stubborn glint, that quiet realization and determination:  
  
It was the look of a man prepared for war.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He went to find the President. He passed through the White House, looking out the windows as he moved—the sky was darkening. The world outside did not look like a country about to enter a war. There were throngs of people gathered outside the brightly lit White House, though. They lined up against the iron fence. Some were in Lafayette Park across the street. Inside the White House, there was barely controlled chaos. People passed him by, some running, but all walking briskly at the very least. They did not give him a second look, did not realize who they were passing, did not realize that each step was painful and weighed heavily on his heart—  
  
He was at war now. He had entered the war.   
  
His body shuddered every time he thought about it—they’d known an attack was coming, how could his navy be caught so off-guard? How could he be the victim of a sneak attack?   
  
He closed his eyes as he walked, and then thought better of it when he teetered into a wall. The sudden vertigo, the sudden slam against a wall—he bit back the small cry of pain. He should be able to endure it. He’d seen others experience much worse—this was nothing. This was nothing—  
  
He turned a corner and saw Murrow sitting outside a meeting room, smoking. Alfred froze. Edward Murrow—the voice he knew so well, the man who delivered all the news of the British over the airwaves of the BBC. He’d known that voice even before he’d seen London and Arthur again. The man looked up from his cigarette and saw Alfred staring.  
  
He nodded his head towards the door he sat beside. “Waiting for him, too?”  
  
“… Yes,” Alfred said, quietly, and, limping just a little, made his way to Murrow’s side. Murrow didn’t question the slowness and limp of his movements, and Alfred was thankful for that. He sighed out, relieved, as he sat down, took the weight off. He slumped a little against the wall and stared like that. Murrow offered him a cigarette, but Alfred declined.   
  
“They tell me he’s living off in another world,” Murrow said. “He isn’t noticing what goes on… on the other side of the desk—having a dreadful time accepting what’s happened.”  
  
“The President?” Alfred asked.  
  
“Yeah,” Murrow agreed.   
  
The two men watched in silence as cabinet members and congressional and military leaders hurried in and out of the room as Murrow and Alfred waited. Murrow smoked cigarette after cigarette, looking as if he, too, was only beginning to accept the magnitude of what was happening.   
  
Alfred was in a similar state. Shock.   
  
His body shook periodically, but thankfully Murrow never noticed, lost in his own thoughts and too busy watching man after man filter in and out of Roosevelt’s study. The tension in the air was palpable—they could hear shouting, occasionally, from the other side of the door. Shouts of the damage, shouts of something akin to “You aren’t fit to command a rowboat!”.   
  
Alfred’s thoughts drifted. He thought of his people—those caught off guard in Pearl Harbor. He thought of the people outside, waiting for some kind of direction. Alfred felt his body chill. This was war—everyone had gotten what they’d wanted, a reason. At his expense. At his people’s expense. Secretly, in his heart, he’d wanted it, too.   
  
He closed his eyes, slumping a little. He sighed out.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
It wasn’t until midnight that the president called Murrow into his study. Murrow stood and Alfred stood with him. The president, though surprised to see Alfred, and possibly angry that he was moving around, nevertheless didn’t make him leave. He called Murrow to him, and Alfred retreated to a chair in the corner, needing to sit down, needing to hear what they had to say—  
  
“I must ask you—How is the British public’s morale?” the president asked Murrow, and Alfred blinked in surprise—  
  
Of all the questions to ask first—  
  
But Murrow told him, told him everything that Alfred already knew, and more. The elation of the government that the United States was entering the war. Alfred could easily imagine Churchill dancing. He couldn’t blame the prime minister—but, still, Alfred hoped that Arthur wasn’t dancing. He hoped that Arthur wasn’t happy because he’d been hurt. He’d never wanted Arthur to be hurt—  
  
 _Why do you care—_  
  
The president made Alfred come closer, and had Murrow pull over a chair for him. Over beer and sandwiches, then, with a grave, gray expression, the president told the two men of the losses at Pearl Harbor. Alfred listened, silent, feeling too sore, too overwhelmed, to contribute much to the conversation. He listened to Murrow and Roosevelt speak together.   
  
Eight battleships sunk or badly damaged, hundreds of planes destroyed—  
  
Thousands of men dead, wounded, and missing—military and civilian—  
  
Alfred stared down at the table, expression lost.  
  
He jumped, startled, when Roosevelt slammed his fist down onto the table. “The aircrafts—destroyed _on the ground_ , by God!” The very idea seemed to physically pain him. “On the ground!”   
  
Alfred ate his sandwich, mute.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Yesterday, December 7, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”  
  
He was going to go to war.   
  
“The United States was at peace with that nation and, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with its Government and its Emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific. Indeed—”  
  
It was the wrong ocean. It was the wrong time. It was wrong, all wrong—  
  
His wounds throbbed.   
  
His people wanted revenge. This was the push, this was the trigger—they would be at war now. They would stride into the two-front war. If they declared war on Japan, Germany and Italy were sure to follow.   
  
“—It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from Japan makes it obvious that the attack was deliberately planned many days or even weeks ago—”  
  
He hadn’t slept at all last night. His body ached, his breathing was irregular. He could hear the people outside the iron gates, still, calling out to the president. But all of it was nothing, all of it was the same—  
  
Nothing looked different. Outside, the day continued the same. Uncharacteristically warm for December, but still threatening snow.   
  
“—Yesterday the Japanese Government also launched an attack against Malaya. Last night Japanese forces attacked Hong Kong. Last night Japanese forces attacked Guam. Last night Japanese forces attacked the Philippine Islands. Last night the Japanese attacked Wake Island. This morning the Japanese attacked Midway Island—”  
  
He tried to focus on the president’s speech. Clicked the radio louder. The presidents’ voice filled the room.   
  
Alfred clenched his eyes shut. He stood, moved to his window, and pulled the curtains shut.   
  
It was dark. It was safe.   
  
“—Japan has, therefore, undertaken a surprise offensive extending throughout the Pacific area—”  
  
It was all wrong.   
  
It wasn’t enough. He didn’t know what he wanted—it reversed, so instantly. From not wanting war to diving into war.   
  
But it was the wrong ocean, it was the wrong country, it was the wrong place—  
  
“—The people of the United States have already formed their opinions and well understand the implications to the very life and safety of our nation—”  
  
Alfred clenched his eyes shut, curled into himself.   
  
“—the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory—”  
  
He wanted it all to end. This wasn’t what he wanted—  
  
But he was at war now. Congress would declare war.   
  
“—Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory and our interests are in grave danger—”  
  
He would be at war.   
  
And, Alfred knew, at the back of his mind, that, no matter what, he would make sure that his country won.  
  
“—So help us God—”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The White House was still a mess. Alfred wanted to get away, get to where he could be alone—but the president wouldn’t let him out of his sight for long. Even as he swamped himself in work and papers and bustling aids, he would look up, periodically, to make sure that Alfred was okay, still sitting on the couch. Alfred stayed curled into himself, hand drifting to where his injuries slashed along his body.   
  
Alfred was there when Churchill’s proposed visit came to Roosevelt’s desk. Lord Halifax, the British ambassador to the US, told him calmly of the Prime Minister’s plans. Roosevelt listened, looking a little impatient to get back to work.   
  
“It might be better to wait,” the president said, gravely.   
  
Alfred looked up, and the president caught his eye. They held it between each other for a moment before Roosevelt turned his eyes away to look to Lord Halifax, nodding his head in a curt little jerk.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Three days later, the Prime Minister and his military advisors were on their way to the capital.   
  
“He’s like a child in his impatience, sir,” Lord Halifax told him, sounding rather grave despite the message. “He speaks as if every minute counts.”  
  
Roosevelt looked to Alfred, and there must have been something in Alfred’s eyes because Roosevelt sighed.  
  
“Very well,” he said, standing. “We will greet them when they arrive. Most warmly. I suppose the Prime Minister will be eager to make that alliance he’s spoken of for so long.”   
  
  
\---  
  
  
Germany and Italy declared war on the US.   
  
The US declared war in return.   
  
It was now a two-front war.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
The United States had been at war for two weeks when Churchill arrived to the country.   
  
But his home still didn’t look like a country at war—and he hoped it never would. Alfred was still not fully used to the blazing lights of the capital at night. There was an isolation, still, for his people—an isolation from the conflict both psychologically and geographically. And he hoped that the war would never arrive to his shores. He never wanted to be bombed again. He never wanted to feel it, and the fear that it would happen again gripped at his heart every night he tried to sleep.   
  
He had to close his curtains tightly to keep the light out at night—he was not accustomed to the bright lights. It kept him up at night. It all was too much—  
  
But most things were keeping him up at night, lately.   
  
Having surrendered to the Prime Minister’s sense of urgency, Roosevelt was preparing his trip to meet Churchill at the airport. There was a warmth to Roosevelt’s face that Alfred hadn’t seen for a while, and Alfred followed after him as the president moved. But the president stopped, suddenly, with a slight jerk. He turned to look at Alfred, and shook his head.   
  
“You should stay here, Alfred.”   
  
“But—”  
  
“They’ll be staying here, so you’ll be seeing them. But I can’t spare your injuries.”  
  
“I’m fine, I can—”  
  
“My word is final, Alfred,” the president said, turning, and walking away.   
  
Alfred felt like kicking a wall, but felt that was too childish, too. So he just stomped off to his room to wait in silence.   
  
  
\---  
  
  
He saw the cars pull up to the front of the White House from his window. His breath caught—  
  
He didn’t know if Arthur would be among the party. But he hoped. He hoped he’d be there.   
  
Snow was falling, lightly, little flakes of snow. Two days before Christmas Eve, and it almost looked magical. Alfred squirmed in his seat, watching figures get out of the car but unable to make out who was who—other than Churchill, who would always be distinctive. He couldn’t tell if Arthur was there—or maybe Winant would be there—  
  
But, no, he couldn’t tell.   
  
Alfred sighed, slumping, and pulling away from the window. He kept the curtains open. He walked around his room, bored and useless. It’d be a long time before he would go to England again—the president would want him safe, at home. He wouldn’t be able to see Arthur—  
  
His heart clenched.   
  
He froze.   
  
_Why do you care—_  
  
He swallowed thickly. He breathed in and out. He was trying to calm himself down when he heard the knock at the door—so soft, so hesitant—and heard the doorknob turn. The door opened, a swinging arc.   
  
Alfred turned around and Arthur was there.   
  
Their eyes locked, and Alfred forgot to breathe for just one moment. It seemed Arthur forgot the same thing. He looked better. He must have gotten a new suit to see the president, and his eyes didn’t look quite so horrified.   
  
“Arthur,” Alfred said, and his voice sounded hoarse—and he almost cringed.   
  
Arthur stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him, still staring at Alfred, not saying anything. They looked at one another, neither able to speak.   
  
“It’s…” Arthur began. He cleared his throat, and looked away, abruptly. “It’s as beautiful as I remember it being.”   
  
“Um—”  
  
“One of Churchill’s men said that all the lights from the plane looked like a fairy city. I was going to correct him on that, but it seemed too much of a bother to explain.” He cleared his throat again, pointedly not looking at Alfred. “But, even so… it was one of the most beautiful sights I’ve seen in a very long time.”   
  
“Thanks,” Alfred croaked.   
  
Arthur didn’t move, leaning against the door with his eyes averted. Then he breathed in, sharply, and let it out in a sharp breath.   
  
“Forgive me,” he said, abruptly.   
  
“What? What the hell for?” Alfred asked, taken aback.   
  
“I had… often wished… for something to happen to make you enter the war.” He looked up then, studying Alfred’s face. His expression crumbled and he took a small step forward. He seemed to remember himself and stopped, though. “I never wanted this, though. I never wanted…”  
  
“I know,” Alfred interrupted. His expression softened, despite himself—reassured that he hadn’t been laughing happily upon learning of Alfred’s entrance into the war. Softly, he said, “It’s okay.”   
  
And it seemed the world melted away in that moment, because Alfred was hurrying his way to Arthur and Arthur, eyes wide, took a few more steps to reach him, hands out to meet him. Alfred threw his arms around Arthur and hugged him tightly.   
  
“Ouch,” Arthur said, softly, in Alfred’s ear.  
  
“Sorry,” Alfred mumbled, loosening his grip but refusing to pull away. He pressed his face into Arthur’s shoulder. He refused to move.   
  
Arthur’s hands lifted, touching his back, very softly. Then lifted and touched his hair, cupping the back of his neck, thumbs pressed against the line of his jaw, along the length of his cheekbones.   
  
“Are you alright?” he asked, quietly, hesitant—as if afraid to hear the answer.   
  
Alfred nodded, lifted his head so that he was looking at Arthur. “I’m with you now. I’m with you.”  
  
Arthur stared at him, his expression torn between relief and unbearable sadness. He nodded, silently.   
  
“I’m with you,” Alfred said, quietly, his throat closing off. He shifted a little closer without quite realizing, his nose bumping against Arthur’s. He pulled away, a little, but still he refused to let go of Arthur. He pulled away a little, hands on Arthur’s shoulders, keeping him close.   
  
Arthur shook his head, just slightly, Arthur’s hands gripping his face tightening as his thumbs traced along his cheekbones, a comforting, soothing gesture. Alfred realized, absently, in the back of his mind, that he’d always wanted Arthur to touch him like this—comforting, present, intimate.   
  
“I’m sorry, Alfred,” Arthur said, quietly.   
  
“I should have been with you from the start,” Alfred said, frowning. “You—asked why I cared. Before. And… I. I don’t care about this war.” He saw Arthur’s eyes cloud up, felt as if Arthur were finally going to pull away from him. He shook his head. “I just—care about you, okay?”   
  
Arthur stared at him, and then his eyes widened in surprise. He didn’t pull away, but he felt Arthur go still, freezing up.   
  
Alfred swallowed thickly. “I don’t—don’t take this the wrong way or anything. It’s not about your _country_ or about anyone’s country, I mean. I just—I just want. To protect you—everybody. I want to protect everyone, so that no one needs to get hurt anymore. That’s what I want.”   
  
Arthur continued to stare at him.   
  
And then his expression wobbled, and Alfred saw the tears flooding up into Arthur’s eyes before Arthur turned his face away, clenching his eyes shut. He sniffed, once, and then his shoulders straightened, and he looked to Alfred again—a perfectly composed, calm expression.   
  
“Is that so?” he asked, quietly, rhetorical.   
  
“I’m with you now,” he repeated. He took a step closer. “I can help you now.”  
  
Arthur closed his eyes again, his breathing a little shaky. He nodded his head.   
  
“Yes,” he said quietly.   
  
Arthur’s thumbs pressed against his cheekbones, just briefly, and Alfred could feel his fingers in his hair. He closed his eyes.   
  
_Why do you care—_  
  
“Because it’s you,” Alfred said, slowly, and once he spoke the words he knew them to be truth—always knew it was the truth, waiting for him to accept it, waiting for him to understand.   
  
He didn’t blink his eyes open, but he heard Arthur’s breath catch. “I—”  
  
“Because it’s you, I’ll do whatever I can to help you. So you won’t be hurt again.”   
  
Arthur was silent. His thumbs touched Alfred’s jaw line, and then fell away.   
  
Alfred blinked his eyes open. They stared at one another. Their eyes locked and held—did not waver.   
  
“I’m with you,” Alfred told him. “I’ll be with you from now on.”  
  
And he had no intention of breaking that promise.   
  
Arthur took a step closer.   
  
And Alfred wasn’t quite sure who was moving first, only that he knew his mouth was against Arthur’s and Arthur’s was against his—kissing him. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. They hung limply by his side. But Arthur held them with his own, pulling Alfred down a little to meet his mouth more fully. And Alfred kissed Arthur, felt Arthur kiss him in turn. Felt his breath stop, his heart shove up against his ribcage as he kissed Arthur slowly, letting Arthur kiss against him, open his mouth, step closer to deepen the kiss—and Alfred responded, his hands finally responding and holding Arthur’s hands in turn, clenching tight and keeping him close.   
  
He understood. He understood it all—  
  
He kissed Arthur until Arthur—or was it himself—finally pulled away, for air, breathing heavily. Arthur lifted a hand and touched Alfred’s cheek, very softly.   
  
Just there.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Notes:**  
  
\- In England, Gil Winant and Averell Harriman had been invited to spend December 7 with the Churchill sat Chequers. As he drove to the prime minister’s country house, Winant knew that the day would be anything but relaxing. The Japanese were on the move, and at attack was expected at any moment. The day before, Roosevelt had been handed a belligerent message from the Japanese government to their embassy in Washington. After reading the dispatch, which had been cracked by US Army code breakers, the president declared, “This means war.” Two large convoys of Japanese warships had been sighted steaming south, but no one knew their exact destination. All the intelligence pointed, however, to Malaya, Singapore, or the Dutch East Indies.  
  
\- Churchill was morose during the entire weekend party. But listening to the BBC often helped calm his nerves. On December seventh, it seemed a routine broadcast at first: war communiqués and domestic news. Then, at the end, one brief, unemotional sentence: “The news has just been given that Japanese aircraft have raided Pearl Harbor, the American naval base in Hawaii.” There was a silence around the table until Churchill, sitting bolt upright, shouted, “What did he say? Pearl Harbor attacked?” Stunned, Harriman repeated, “The Japanese have raided Pearl Harbor.” Commander C.R. Thompson, Churchill’s naval aide, interrupted the American: “No, no, he said Pearl River.” As Harriman and Thompson argued, Sawyers entered the dining room. “It’s quite true,” the valet told Churchill. “We heard it ourselves outside. The Japanese have attacked the Americans.” With that, Churchill was on his feet and heading toward the door, exclaiming, “We shall declare war on Japan!” Throwing his napkin on the table, Winant jumped up and ran after him. “Good God,” he said, ‘You can’t declare war on a radio announcement!” Churchill stopped, and, looking at him quizzically, asked, “What shall I do?” When Winant said he would call Roosevelt at once, Churchill replied, “And I shall talk to him, too.”   
  
\- A few minutes later, FDR was on the phone. “Mr. President, what’s this about Japan?” Churchill asked. Roosevelt replied: “They’ve attacked us at Pearl Harbor. We are all in the same boat now.” The prime minister was euphoric, and so were his two American guests.   
  
\- [Timeline for the chronological events of December seventh.](http://www.historyplace.com/worldwar2/timeline/pearl.htm)   
  
\- The Murrows actually were meant to have dinner with the Roosevelts that day. After the attack, the Murrows were still invited and they enjoyed a dinner of pudding and scrambled eggs with Eleanor Roosevelt (FDR was too busy in the war rooms and in meetings to attend the dinner). After the dinner, Ed Murrow heard word that the president would like to speak with him—so he waited until midnight in order to see the president as his wife went back to their hotel.   
  
\- Those who saw the president that day testified to his extreme difficulty in coming to grips with the magnitude of the attack. When cabinet members entered his study for a meeting that evening, he didn’t look up. In fact, he acted at first as if they weren’t even there. “He was living off in another area,” noted Frances Perkins. “He wasn’t noticing what went on the other side of the desk… His face and lips were pulled down, looking quite gray… it was obvious to me that Roosevelt was having a dreadful time just accepting that the Navy could be caught off guard.”   
  
\- During their first meeting in Roosevelt’s study, Roosevelt asked Murrow about the British public’s morale and then, over beer and sandwiches, told him of the staggering losses at Pearl Harbor—the eight battleships sunk or badly damaged, the hundreds of planes destroyed, the thousands of men dead, wounded, and missing. Roosevelt kept his rage under control until he started talking about the aircraft. “Destroyed on the ground, by God!” he exclaimed, pounding his fist on the table. “On the ground!” As Murrow later recalled, “the idea seemed to hurt him.”  
  
\- The morning after Pearl Harbor, Churchill awoke from a sound sleep and announced he planned to leave at once for Washington. A dubious Anthony Eden told him he didn’t think the Americans would want to see him so soon. Eden was right. When Roosevelt heard about the prime minister’s proposed trip, he advised Lord Halifax, now the British ambassador in Washington, that it might be better to wait. But Churchill would brook no delay. “He was like a child in his impatience to see the president,” recalled Lord Moran. “He spoke as if every minute counted.” Four days after the US entered the war, Churchill and his military advisers were on their way to the American capital to set up the alliance he had pursued for so long.  
  
\- [Roosevelt’s ‘Infamy’ speech.](http://www.law.ou.edu/ushistory/infamy.shtml)   
  
\- And thus, the US entered the war.   
  
\- **DISCLAIMER:** Now that this fic is over, I can say this as a catch-all. Though I attempted to make this as historically accurate as I could, this is an _extremely biased fic._ Because it centers only on Alfred and Arthur, other aspects of the allied powers are not explored. And, much less, the axis powers are left entirely unexplored. There were a lot of branches in history that I couldn’t devote attention to during this fic and, because of my own US-born bias (unavoidable), and the bias of the historical articles and materials, there is undoubtedly a very, very pro-English bias in this fic. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it IS something to be aware of, especially if you’re going to use this fic for any kind of historical fact or teaching (even if only passively).  
  
\- Thank you everyone for your continued support and lovely comments. I am honestly incapable of ever truly expressing just how thankful and humbled I am to have such wonderful and thoughtful readers.


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